


The In-Between

by MemoryCrow



Category: Alice In Wonderland - Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland (Movies - Burton), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Dreams, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hearing Voices, Hedge witchery, Horned God, Leroy's a stud in Marmoreal, M/M, Magic, Multiple Worlds, Mushrooms, Shapeshifting, Talking Animals, bad witches - Freeform, drunk mice, escape from persecution, good witches, kinda threesome f/m/m, kitten killian, naughty golden hook sex, oracular mermaid, pirates and butterflies, playing with dead things, seeing things, spells, travel by hat, wee witches, wizard dementia, wood wide web
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:26:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 53,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: I wrote a little thing called Mirana's Laboratory, a OUAT/Alice in Wonderland crossover, because when I watch Tim Burton's White Queen float around and move her hands all about in the air, I think of Imp!Rumple. There's a similarity of presenting oneself in costume, hiding behind something like dance or pantomime, and eventually having those things become a part of one's expression. And there's the magic. There's the Dark One and the curious idea that sweet and good Mirana makes potions and flutters her eyelashes over buttery fingers. She forever has dark circles beneath her eyes.They turned into a ship in my head and not too long after the Laboratory tale, I started this devil. In this story, Zelena has managed to one-up Rumple and jail him, and a team of unlikely rescuers - led by Killian - spring Rumple and hat-hop to his old friend in Marmoreal/Wonderland. There's a bit of going native, hanging around and getting dreamy, drunk and curious while plans are made to overthrow Zelena.





	1. Rescue

They’d put Rumplestiltskin on trial. Such as it was, conviction was quick.

The Fairies made a device, like a witch-lock. He was in rags, no longer known as Gold. He was only The Imp, The Goblin. The cold iron of the Fairies’ making encircled all of his fingers and toes. It joined his wrists to his ankles. He rocked, tailbone painful on the cold, cement floor, hair falling in his face.

The Fairies were bitches. _Bitches_. Hypocrites, in their nun’s costumes, their good-girl capes. But there were Fairies and there were faeries. Those, native to the land where Storybrooke was born, were a different breed. They were wild things, attached to trees and roots, to the earth and air. They were rarely visible. They cared nothing for diamond mines and Fairy Dust…. In fact, those things caused offense, tearing into the earth.

He'd come to know them. He closed his eyes and tried to stretch out to them, stifled by the iron that bound him. It made him sick, weak, fuzzy-headed.

He had visions of his past… Would he be that man, again? They were trying to reduce him, to strip him of power and grin at his helplessness, indulgent. They enjoyed his bare feet, which made him feel quite naked. They enjoyed his bared torso, which was bird-bony at the chest and had grown a paunch at the belly, now going slack with hunger.

_Fuck_ them all.

 

 

The pirate said, “Sweet mother of holy-fucking-hell, mate.”

It took Rumplestiltskin somewhat aback. He’d exhausted himself, his mind fighting the black, damp fog of the iron, his body squirming and useless against it. Not a soul had shown sympathy; not even those who were known for it. Belle came nowhere near the jail. Emma, it was said, had left town.

Mary Margaret Blanchard’s face was stone, and Nolan was much the same. They were frankly terrifying, as often occurred when the zealously good were set free within wickedness. They’d kissed one another before him, celebrating his wretchedness with tongues and moaning, and he’d looked away, ill. Something in the display suggested a putrefaction of spirit.

It was mystery whose doing this was. Bloody _Zelena_. What a mistake it had been to teach her…. her insidious envy had delayed her in all but magic… she was like a neglected toddler with a gun.

Killian’s voice was the first he’d heard that sounded… concerned. He looked up, eyes peering from under his long bangs, the witch-lock making him bowed and penitent, curled in on himself.

“Pirate.” Rumplestiltskin said, his voice a mere scrap of a whisper, a dry leaf, skittering along the pavement.

“Look what they’ve done to you.” Killian said. His hand was white-knuckled to one of the cell bars; iron, of course. Infused with yet another Fairy ensorcellment, and Zelena had made certain there were no loop-holes in the spell. No squid ink, no saviors.

Killian’s eyes showed frank shock over the cuts and bruises covering the bared parts of Rumplestiltskin’s body. Nolan was a big man. When his friendliness disappeared, he was a machine. Thorough. Zelena had cured him of conscience.

“Well, guess what?” Killian gave a soft exhale. He dug in his pocket, trousers tight and restrictive. He came up with a ring of keys, which he dangled like a cat toy.

More be-spelled iron. Rumplestiltskin’s stomach turned, but his eyes were glued to Killian’s hand.

“I’m your guard.” The pirate said, now smiling. “I’m also the witch’s weak link… she has no idea how I feel. She trusts me.”

Rumplestiltskin’s lips, parched and cracked, caked in dried blood, parted. It hurt. How _did_ the pirate feel? His eyes questioned Killian, and – in answer – Killian raised a brow and inserted one large key into the cell’s lock.

For a moment, Rumplestiltskin couldn’t breathe. As old as the memory was, he could still feel the cutlass the pirate wielded, pressing into him as Milah looked on. Was there to be another beating? Would Killian come at him with the bloody hook? Again?

But, as the door swung open, Killian strode in quickly and sank to his knees. There was a different, tiny lock for each finger and toe. The pirate freed all of his digits, one by one, as Rumplestiltskin’s insides shook. When he was freed, the murky, slimy feeling of the iron-spell receding, Killian helped him to stand.

“Come on, mate.” He murmured. “We’ve got to be quick about it. You’ve very few allies… most, here, are under Zelena’s spell.”

“I have allies?” Gods. He sounded like a frog.

“Me. The Hatter. Leroy. The doctor. That’s it, mate. I don’t know how we escaped the spell… we were _really_ drunk when Zelena cast it. That’s the doctor’s working theory… he thinks that, in a manner of speaking, we weren’t _here_ to become bewitched.”

Rumplestiltskin almost smiled. Not bad, for an amateur. For a man of weird science.

Killian was practically carrying him… his bare feet stumbled and dragged, his legs mostly numb from days of being bent, crouched to his body.

“The Hatter is getting us all the fuck out of here. He’s taking us one at a time; the hat only takes two, apparently. He’s taking you first.”

“No. Last.” Rumplestiltskin rasped.

“No time for heroics, Croc.”

Rumplestiltskin shook his shaggy head. “No. I’m weak. But out of Zelena’s iron, I have magic. Leave me for last, in case something happens.”

Killian glanced at him. After a moment of study, he nodded.

 

The others were waiting, just behind the sheriff’s department. Jefferson handed Rumplestiltskin a shirt, which he accepted gratefully. He couldn’t manage the aplomb of Gold… it hung, untucked, cuffs loose and near-hiding his hands. He was barefoot. Still, it was a note of civility.

Leroy said, “I can’t believe I’m a part of this. Helping the Dark One.” He shook his head, and Rumplestiltskin gave a sharp look. He was grievously aware of being the smallest man present… a head taller than the dwarf, but far less solid. The runt of the litter.

“But Zelena’s insane.” Leroy added. “Ain’t no way I can be under her thumb. The other dwarfs are servants at her estate. They have _uniforms_.”

Rumplestiltskin looked at them all in question. With a shrug, Victor said, “Bitches be crazy. Let’s blow this taco stand.”

 

 


	2. The Scents of Other Worlds

It was nerve-wracking, the waiting. Wondering if the hat would work as it should and deliver Jefferson to the desired location – and back, again – time after time. Wondering if Zelena had a boundary, an alarm to be tripped in the event of such travel.

Rumplestiltskin leaned heavily against the brick wall, bare feet turning a pale blue in the cold. He hugged his arms to his chest and shivered. The motion was painful at his ribs. Some of the shivering wasn’t from the cold… it was relief, and yet a reluctance to hope. He could not control it, teeth chattering.

Jefferson popped back in a swirling vortex that altered the landscape for a moment. It created a wind, and in that wind Rumplestiltskin could smell the scent of another land. It was a delicate, dewy sort of perfume, and maybe salt air… a striking contrast to the sharp, medicinal green of the firs that breathed, tall and rather sentient, all around Storybrooke.

“Me, me! Do me.” Leroy said. The dwarf was nearly coming out of his skin. He was spooked to linger in bespelled Storybrooke, and so near to the Dark One.

Jefferson cocked a brow to Rumplestiltskin, who nodded. The Hatter nodded back. He was all business, as he’d been in the old days, when he didn’t seem especially mad. He didn’t loiter; he and Leroy made the jump, Jefferson’s face one of focused concentration.

It left Rumplestiltskin alone with Killian, who appeared to be cleaning his fingernails with his hook. The pirate frowned at his work.

“Do you think running is the right thing?” he asked.

“Aye.” Rumplestiltskin was still a frog. He rubbed his throat, self-conscious.

“Shouldn’t we find a way to take the witch out? To free these people from her curse?”

Rumplestiltskin was tired. “Aye. But not yet. She has the _town_ , Killian.”

There was an odd stirring in the air, just around them. Rumplestiltskin went still, thinking it was a prelude of Jefferson’s arrival. But, no. It was more subtle; it was that he’d spoken Killian’s name, and that was an unusual thing. It hung there, and Rumplestiltskin felt the way his tongue touched the backs of his upper teeth, as when he said _Belle_.

Killian felt it, too. He went a little stiff, his frown studious.

Rumplestiltskin said, “We’ll need help. And I need my strength back. We’ll get no help from anyone, here.”

Killian nodded, and then the stirring air whipped itself into a frenzy; Jefferson’s hallmark.

The scent of ocean was stronger this time, and Rumplestiltskin thought he could hear its roar. Killian’s nose lifted, dog-like. He would be in his element.

“Pirate.” Jefferson said.

Killian gave Rumplestiltskin an odd look. He seemed… reluctant? to leave him. Voice newly gentle, not the raised, toasting-the-room voice he usually engaged, he said, “The Hatter will be right back for you, mate.”

Rumplestiltskin nodded. The moment lingered, and he wished – almost desperately – to look away from Killian. Somehow their gazes had locked, and he couldn’t escape. His mind looped a playback of Killian coming to kneel before him.

“Gotta truck, baby duck.” Jefferson said. He gave an important tap to his wrist, where there was no wristwatch. “Gotta scram, little lamb.”

Killian gave a rather subtle eye-roll, making Rumplestiltskin feel the tug of a smile. The Hatter and the pirate made the jump, two tall men who were cartoonishly overdone in elaborate coats, dark shadow about their eyes… the air, the disturbed molecules somehow mended themselves. Storybrooke was once again its own, and Rumplestiltskin was left edgily alone. His stomach was a painful knot and his skin was hyper-alert for treachery… every part of him hurt.

But he could still smell the ocean.

 

 

 

The travelers on the beach stared at their surroundings. The sound of the ocean was steady, a heartbeat that belonged to the earth, blood that ached to the moon. The moon, in fact, was up; big, round; a ghost in the pale blue of a sunny sky. The ocean advanced and retreated, and strong gusts of warm wind made waves of the sea oats that clustered the dunes.

There were wild horses about. A small herd ran, a thundering gallop far down the strand. Others were laying down, legs tucked in, statue-like amongst the whispering dunes.

Rumplestiltskin had been to Wonderland before, but had not seen this part. In comparison to his previous experience, this part looked… very real. It was rich, yet sparse. It was comprised of basic elements.

“Where the devil are we?” Killian asked. He seemed extra-vibrant. Jaunty. He looked as though he needed to shimmy up ropes, dangle from a crow’s nest and dance a little jig along a plank. His walk became saucy, invigorated by sea air.

He and the others had taken off their coats and jackets. Victor rolled up his sleeves, looking as though he was about to swab for cultures. Rumplestiltskin felt the heat of the sand saturate his bare feet with deep, quiet gratitude. The saturation was to the bone.

He had to hand it to Zelena… to control even the Fairies. It was sobering. It had been a long time since anyone had done him real harm. When the time came, he was going to rip her insides out. He would make her watch.

Jefferson said, “This is the outskirts of Marmoreal, in Wonderland.”

Killian didn’t appear to be any more illuminated. Muttering, he said, “Wonderland. Neverland. Why is it I never end up in Moneyland? Sexyland?”

“Beerland.” Leroy chimed in. “Pizzaland. Burgerland.”

“Noble aspirations, gents.” Victor agreed. To Jefferson, he asked, “What’s the plan?”

Jefferson deferred to Rumplestiltskin, who said, “The White Queen. She’s the plan.”

 

 

 

“White Queen, Red Queen, Evil Queen…. “ Killian grumbled as the party walked on. “Never a Queen of Cookies. Never just, ‘Hi, I’m Queen Kim’. ‘I’m Queen Betty’.”

“I bet you are.” Victor said, but without emphasis.

“Oh, you’ll like the White Queen.” Jefferson said. “She’s nice enough. A little weird.” Which was actually saying something, coming from Jefferson.

“That’s why we’re here.” Rumplestiltskin agreed. “When you do a bit of world-hopping, you come to find there are several powerful figures at hand… practitioners of all sorts of magic. It becomes a much smaller number when you narrow it down to who is _nice_. Helpful.”

Leroy looked away, mumbling something inarticulate about the Dark One’s absence from that small list. After a bit of silence, Rumplestiltskin agreed, “No. I’m not on the list.”

“Well, that does bring up a sticky point.” Leroy became more direct. “How are we supposed to know that we can trust you? _Dark One_?”

“We’re all in the same mess, Leroy.” Jefferson said, uncomfortable. Rumplestiltskin was his business associate of old. He rather liked him… he’d even liked the murderous, giggling Imp.

Victor said, “Maybe enough with the ‘Dark One’ business. It’s like _He Who Must Not Be Named_. It’s a little over-the-top, don’t you think?”

“Never the ‘Cheerful One’.” Killian said. “The ‘Generous One’. The ‘Pleasant One.’”

“But the Dark One is who he _is_.” Leroy insisted.

Rumplestiltskin stopped walking and stared Leroy down. Leroy became fidgety, and the others became stiff, waiting. But for Jefferson, hackles started to rise.

“You’re right Leroy.” Rumplestiltskin bared his teeth, mostly from habit. “But what’s your choice, given the situation? Would you feel better if we made a deal?” Smiling, he raised his arms. As in his Goblin days, he vogued.

Leroy visibly blanched. “I ain’t making no deals with you.” His dark, hound-dog eyes became fierce beneath glowering brows.

“Fine, How about this, instead? You’ve a henchman among you whose been gunning for me for years. If I take a misstep, Hook is sure to see that I’m… redirected. Isn’t that right, pirate?”

Rumplestiltskin, hands to hips in a rather impatient manner, glanced at Killian. Killian’s face was strange… his expression uncertain. But, holding Rumplestiltskin’s gaze, he said, “Aye.”

 


	3. The White Queen

The terrain shifted from sand that was soft with limestone, gritty with crushed shell and sparkling with mica, to spindly woods of scrub pine and saw grass, and eventually to thick, deciduous forest. The scent was not quite the crisp, cool and camphor-like green of Storybrooke. It was a fuzzier green, redolent of sunbaked earth. The scent of ocean was still faint, within it.

Leroy said, “The Hat couldn’t just pop us to the castle? It prefers a scenic route?”

No one answered. Rumplestiltskin had had the same thought… once, with a snap of his fingers, he could have the party in the White Queen’s presence. Even now, so sapped by Zelena’s spells and the hospitality of the Charmings, it might be done.

In truth, he was reluctant to hurry a reunion with the White Queen. _Mirana_ , he thought, and felt a tremor of nervousness.

She’d once helped Jefferson and himself when the Hat was stolen by the playing-card Guard of the Queen of Hearts…. And then, he’d tarried. He’d stayed on in Marmoreal for a time, with thoughts of wooing Mirana.

… And how strange it had been to have thoughts of wooing. It was a part of his life he’d found quite bitter… love. Connection to another that was not based on negotiation, contracts.

He glanced side-long at Killian, who stared at the ground as they walked. The litany in his head had always been; _you stole her. You killed her_.

Well. Zelena had stripped him bare; he was quite humbled. He thought… it was _himself_ from whom Milah ran away. And _he’d_ killed her.

Hook played his part, and had done many a contemptable thing, since. But Rumplestiltskin felt the full weight of his own role, his path within the Dark One. It felt as if, in a secret, foreboding way, the Dark One had always been there. It had waited for him.

Bitterness over Milah, Cora and Belle. Over himself. He hated the way such thoughts unmanned him, and he’d put them aside, he’d put love and attachment aside. It wasn’t meant for him.

That he’d felt such stirrings again with Mirana had come as a surprise. However, the White Queen was an odd woman. She’d been a true friend to him, and a playful one, at that. But in private, dealing with the opposite sex… with mere notions, _thoughts_ of sex… she was very childish. Bafflingly so, given her Queenly stature. She’d simply pretended that the subtext of their relationship didn’t exist.

The longer he stayed, the closer he got to her, the more she was evasive. She used her artifice, her postures and formal speech as a fallback, a cover for her own feelings… of which Rumplestiltskin felt sure she’d had. She kept a polite distance, though her eyes had yearned to him.

Eventually, he’d left. Jefferson arrived to check in on him, and he’d made his farewells. His last look to Mirana haunted him… for all of her reluctance, her parting glance was very sad.

Harvested fields had been set afire; smoke had drifted across the castle grounds, and – to Rumplestiltskin – the scent of burning dried leaf and stalk, smoke mingling to the cooling air of autumn would always be hopelessly associated with Mirana. With dark eyes that were sad to see him leave… eyes that were dark, like his own and like his son’s.

She’d been a part of him, but it had never been spoken. It had never _been_.

He winced, stepping on a sharp stone. Once, his feet had been like leather, shoes a luxury of the wealthy. In winter, his feet had been wrapped in sheepskin and tied with strips of leather, all of his world smelling of domestic beast. But that was long, long ago.

Noticing his discomfort, his limp more pronounced, Killian said, “Fancy a piggyback, mate?”

Rumplestiltskin was startled by the offer. More so, he was startled to consider it. It would be a relief, bouncing along on Killian’s back, feet dangling, aching leg supported. He nearly said _yes_.

But… no. It was, perhaps, beneath his dignity. He had a sudden remembrance of Nolan, a merry grin on his usually benign face as he held his prisoner’s balls in a vice grip. His smile grew wider as Rumplestiltskin’s voice got higher with pain and fear. The bloody prince had seemed set to castrate him with his bare hands…. So, perhaps little was beneath his dignity, anymore.

All the same, he gave Killian a vague smile and a shake of his head, _no_. He trudged on.

Annoyed, Leroy said, “Well, then… Can _I_ get a piggyback?”

 

 

 

 

Rumplestiltskin’s heart, such as it was, did something painful and unsettling in his chest. It also seemed to untether itself and make a wild leap for his throat, where already a frog was in residence.

Mirana _ran_. It was not the sort of thing he often saw, a woman running _towards_ him. Without obvious weaponry. She held the glittery froth of her skirt and ran… Smiling, Rumplestiltskin took in the well-remembered sight of her bare feet… now he and she were a matched pair. Her bare feet ran over an expanse of marble, the wealth of stone for which her kingdom was named.

She didn’t slow, and he backed up a step. Collision seemed imminent; the others looked at the display in curiosity. Jefferson grinned.

Mirana did, indeed, collide. She threw herself into Rumplestiltskin’s arms. It was uncharacteristic in every way, and Rumplestiltskin laughed, in spite of the hurt that erupted from every inch of his body. The impact rocked him, and – movie style – he swung Mirana in a half-circle, still smiling in surprise and delight.

“I missed you!” she whispered at his ear.

She wore no crown, her pale, nearly white hair loose and trailing down her back. The embrace was the closest he’d ever been to her.

“I missed you, too, dearie.” He murmured.

It was true, more true than he’d realized. He’d felt at loose ends since returning to Storybrooke. He’d argued with himself to let Marmoreal go, to let Mirana go. But… days stretched out, endless and without real purpose. He’d daydreamed of her, often.

He set her down gently, still hugged tight. When she loosened her hold and leaned back to take him in, her expression darkened.

“You’re hurt!”

“I’m alright, now.”

Her hands rose, her habitual posture. They hovered at shoulder height, arms graceful and fingers making thoughtless mudras. Her hands turned on her wrists, like a dancer’s.

“Who did these things to you?” she asked, her eyes darting over cuts and bruises, swellings and poorly patched wounds. “I will have them destroyed.”

As much as the leap into his arms, this made Rumplestiltskin laugh. It was also somewhat out of character. It was like watching a kitten growl, lifting its lip to show tiny teeth.

She blushed as he laughed, perhaps coming more fully to herself. One hand calmed from its flight, and she touched his face, fingers traveling lightly over cuts at eyes and mouth. Holding his hand over hers, Rumplestiltskin pressed a kiss to her palm.

“That’s why we’ve come, actually.” He said. “A witch has taken over our town. We may need help to defeat her.”

 

 

 

In ways, Marmoreal seemed different, somehow more sedate, less hyperbolic since Rumplestiltskin’s last visit. But some things had not changed.

The Hedge, for one. More wild and rambling than what he’d consider a proper hedge, it was a source of Mirana’s magic. He could feel it, like an artery running through Wonderland… its pulse, now, was as strong and steady as always.

The idea was this: The larger world, encompassing all worlds, was all of dense forest. The clearings that made settlements were the different worlds, themselves. Dividing these worlds from the forest – or chaos, the untapped potential dwelling there – was the Hedge.

Like so much in which Mirana trafficked, the Hedge’s nature was childlike in its simplicity. A map drawn with crayon, one dimensional and, in some ways, absurdly literal. However, it was also astonishing in its power… Jefferson’s Hat worked because of the Hedge’s influence on all worlds. The same, Rumplestiltskin suspected, was true of the Dark Curse.

Mirana’s magic was largely Hedge-riding magic, threshold magic. She was an in-betweener, navigating shades of grey, the realm of spirit. She would never align herself fully with the righteousness of Fairy or the with the evil of the Dark One… she took from both those things which appealed to her. She was more akin to the faerie Rumplestiltskin had become aware of in Storybrooke… an awareness that wasn’t born until he’d returned from Marmoreal.

The in-between could also be a tiresome thing, he remembered. It surely held power… between dark and light, life and death, water and land, sky and earth… between world and Hedge, Hedge and forest. From Mirana’s hedge-riding stance, she could peer into darkness and chaos, the _creation_ into which he traveled when he _cast_. She could absorb power, transfixed, one bare foot dangling into her own land.

But it was also a place of limbo, of indecision. When she looked at him, she was frozen within potential, within a mercurial, shadowy grey. She remained in-between friends and lovers… it could become wearing.

Still, he found himself distracted from the witch-peril in Storybrooke. Oh, he had to act. Henry was there, after all, probably turning into a loathsome, spoiled, snot-nosed Mordred. He assumed Belle was there, though he had no evidence. He couldn’t let them fester under Zelena’s greedy and hectic magic. It would be interesting to see Regina’s reaction to Zelena’s work.

But he watched Mirana anew, and it stilled him; it waylaid his path. Even with her pronounced gestures… which, he smiled, reminded him so much of himself in the old days… she, like the land, seemed more sedate. Perhaps it took its cues from her. Her eyes often caught him out… lingered and explored over him.

It was frankly amazing. He was in the company of handsome men… well, the jury was out on Leroy. Yes, Victor and Jefferson were rather obviously connected to one another; and, yes, Killian endeavored to be a menace of thuggery, which was becoming something of a joke. Strangely cute. Nevertheless, each one was tall and handsome… squared chins, straight noses, strong jaws, graceful cheekbones. Youthful.

Why in all of the worlds did Mirana’s eyes land on him, and tarry? Delay.

But Wonderland did that to people. They became delayed.

 

 


	4. Delay

One hundred dancing princesses ran, through the dale and through the glen. And each morning awoke, headachy and tired, sore-limbed and oddly bruised about the mouth, puffy and sensitive. Fine slippers were in tatters and rags.

Killian showed up in his dream, surprising Rumplestiltskin. The princesses hurried by, a blur of pastels, an Easter parade, and Killian was in all black. His face, his eyes were shadowed in darkness. He was a ghoul, in his devilishly handsome way.

The in-between of the Hedge had stretched its vines around Killian… now he and Rumplestiltskin were in-between brawlers, and… what?

On they went, Midsummer’s princesses, as barefoot as Mirana now their dance was done. Their chattering, bird sounds faded, and Killian came to stand close to Rumplestltskin. How different the pirate seemed from Mirana, who kept herself closed-in. Killian expanded, he spilled out from himself.

It was something that had long rubbed Rumplestiltskin the wrong way… the pirate was too loud, too brash. He glittered with gaudiness. His teeth were too white, a shocking flash within a face darkened with stubble.

In the dream, his spillage of self brushed-up against Rumplestiltskin differently. The suppression, maybe the absence (?) of sexuality that frustrated him with Mirana met its polar opposite in Killian. Sex was in full, deep red bloom, and Rumplestiltskin felt it, startled.

Mirana’s white, night-blooming flowers and Killian’s roses of blood red; tangled and thorny. Faerie-tale colors.

 

 

 

Wonderland seeped, as an unhealing wound seeps. Things were not always reliably solid.

A dragon flew high overhead, its colors those of charcoal, shadowy-grey… like Hedge magic. People and animals stared. The dragon rolled, showing silver scales on its belly, catching light. Rumplestiltskin saw a plane.

He heard the distant roar of engines, thrumming though air. The dragon’s wings were out-stretched and straight, as a plane’s. Its long tail was a rudder.

Dancing princesses, dark, devilish men; such as lurk at crossroads and rotting, railroad ties, sprouting zinnias and blanket flowers. The ties, not the men. Well, mostly.

Jefferson was wild-eyed. Crazy.

Mirana and her White Ladies were ghosts in her castle halls and empty chambers, lingering in stairwells where people traveled down, down, down, in a spiral. They went to an underground lake, deep and cavernous, beneath the castle. They went to meet the mermaid and her interpreter.

There were lines of people. The mermaid was an oracle. She spoke prediction, prophesy; sometimes she merely observed what others didn’t see… she spoke in her own, watery language, and the interpreter interpreted. The interpreter was not only connected psychically, but also – somehow – physically. She spoke in Wonderland’s natural tongue in exact time with the mermaids low and strange voice.

The interpreter was a blowsy sort of woman, chubby and big-bosomed, pillowy. Her dresses were flower-patterned and her jewelry ostentatious, and when not speaking the mermaid’s words, she said things like, “Oh, dear me. Oh, gracious. Me achin’ bones, I swan. Aging is not for the faint of heart.”

_Don’t I know it_ , Rumplestiltskin thought. He, too, was caught in the in-between. He was in-between immortality and an unsteady aging. It skipped years, then came calling.

Passing Victor in the stairwell, Mirana leaned close to him, and he to her. Rumplestiltskin felt his hackles rise, possessiveness in full swing, but the pale pair only raised their brows at one another. Importantly, they intoned, “ _La-BOR-AH-torrrrryyy_.”

Who knew why?

Outside, in sunlight dimmed by a thoughtful, heavy portent of approaching storm, children ran amok. They wore gauzy wings and ran with smallish brooms between their legs, playing at flight. They yelled, _Hey-ho! For Halloween! And the witches to be seen!_

How Zelena would love such a sight, Rumplestiltskin couldn’t help but think. Perhaps if she’d grown up around such play, she wouldn’t be so bat-shit crazy.

There was mass chaos afoot in the storm-heavy, ponderous afternoon. The children, no telling who on earth they belonged to, ran like sweet and sticky demons. Adults sought to avoid their mouths, fingers and noses. Jefferson, in his Hat, yet bare chested, played croquet with a wide-eyed flamingo as a mallet. His shirt was still tucked into his trousers, but was all undone, trailing long arms to the ground as he stomped the field; wide-legged strides in heavy boots.

Mirana held an overly large, smoke-colored cat, draped in her arms. Other cats followed her about; some upright and accessorized; as well as a white crow. She moved, barefoot, over the land and deeper into the mysterious and growing dark. The darkness was lit with the leopard-like stalking of heat lightning. It caused an anxious feeling of swollen air, of an event; paused. To Rumplestiltskin, this was the feeling of Wonderland, itself.

A dream current ran through it; perhaps it was the Hedge, an artery of magic. It could bewitch, enchant. But it could also bedevil.

As in dream, he felt a sense of having forgotten something important. Spirits nagged at him, stirring the hair at his nape. The wound seeped, showing things out of place…. A plane where a dragon rode the sky, a mailbox where a goblin-sort tinkered at its trade, an unlikely grove of fire hydrants where a collective of mushrooms had grown large and formed a small forest.

Rumplestiltskin joined the other two of his party; Killian and Leroy. The three were ‘the dark ones’ in the parlance of Marmoreal’s people and speaking animals. It drove Leroy nuts.

But ‘dark ones’ was not the same as “Dark One”. It was only that they hunkered down, away from pale and utterly distracted Victor; and away from Jefferson, who played at silliness and lightheartedness, disguising a psyche that was shaky-at-best.

The three dark ones, in coloring and in nature, were somber and observing. They hung back. Killian and Leroy drank with dedication; Rumplestiltskin, less so. They lurked in the courtyard, staring at the flagstones and manicured lawns, quirking brows when a nudist ground squirrel bumped into them and squeaked, “Oh! Pardon, gents!” before scampering along.

Everyone, during Marmoreal’s strange and lazy late afternoon, seemed too hot… too befrocked. Velvet and satin, lace, leather, brocade and silk…. Too much. People were flushed and their skin seemed to swell, their eyes a bit manic.

Rumplestiltskin watched Mirana move through the crowds, eventually setting down her cat as she walked towards the Hedge.

As silent as the flickering of heat lightning, aglow here and then there, Rumplestiltskin left his fellow dark ones and followed her.


	5. Touch Magic

“Dearie.” Rumplestiltskin said, approaching.

Mirana turned away from the wild bramble that was her Hedge. Fingerlings of magic reached from it, lifting strands of her pale hair and touching seed pearls on her dress. Her eyes were dark pools, shadowed against her pale skin… she was, in her way, ghoulish.

Rumplestiltskin smiled. “Can’t stay away?”

“No.” Mirana agreed. Soft growths of newborn vine stretched to her bare toes, and a sly, low wind that was specific to the Hedge rustled its leaves and branches, trembled its blossoms and made hollow or dull clacking sounds where the bones of its victims knocked together; gristly windchimes.

Rumplestiltskin saw it as a manifestation of one, or maybe a few of the old gods… moving between and amongst worlds, still hungry for recognition and blood. It troubled him not. He was well acquainted with blood magic.

The Hedge was all manner of semi-wild things. It was rich with scent… honeysuckle, blackberry leaf; wild mint and thyme underfoot, scraggly hawthorn reaching overhead. Rumplestiltskin spied those things Mirana had cultivated for her laboratory; the high gloss of Fruit of the Devil, the bright or deep crimson, the purple-black of various, poison berries. They were the colors with which she painted her lips.

He found himself infected with the subdued electricity of the heat lightning; the sneaky, serpent feeling that had wriggled into Victor. He did not want to resume his gentle courtship. He wanted to take Mirana’s mouth with his, claim it as a part of himself.

No easy thing, when she seemed oblivious, perhaps frightened. Maybe he misread her, altogether.

Coming to stand behind her, he touched her as did the Hedge. He let strands of her hair slide through his fingers, he dandled seed pearls on her dress.

“I’m very fond of you, dearie.” He murmured.

“And I, you.” She smiled at him. But she moved away, and rather than folding into his embrace, she was embraced by the Hedge. Leaves stroked her skin, vines twined about her body. Thorny, prickly foliage moved aside, making way for her bare feet. Against the shimmering white of her dress, fern-leaf bleeding heart was as drops of blood on snow… a sight and a feeling Rumplestiltskin knew very well.

He sighed. He watched Mirana close her eyes, married to the Hedge and to whatever it harbored. But then her eyes opened, their darkness seeming to pull him in.

She said, “Let’s tend to your injuries, Rumple.”

 

 

 

Rumplestiltskin was in the familiar place of Mirana’s laboratory. A space on her long work-table had been cleared of… who knew what? On his previous journey to Marmoreal, Jefferson had poked around Mirana’s various ingredients, frowning and making faces… finding things that could be mineral or could be eyeballs; a wooden bowl of something that could be fungus, or perhaps a collection of small penises. Such clutter was moved aside, and Rumplestiltskin sat, legs dangling; Mirana’s patient.

It was a strange feeling. Her laboratory had pockets of air both warm and icy-cold. Magic had collected and lingered, like years and years of dust. Plants clustered at the periphery, rife with spells, still attached to the Hedge by feelers of magic, like a web.

It was a strange feeling, too, because he was stripped to the waist. He was, once again, barefoot. His present dress had become a little odd… his own tailored trousers, much abused from his capture and confinement; a rugged sort of buckle-boot, on loan from Marmoreal; and his somewhat too-big shirt, donated by Jefferson and in a shade of lavender-grey. He was a motley assortment, the more-so for the colorful array of injuries done to him by Nolan.

Victor had already taped up his ribs, cleaned wounds, applied bandages and butterfly strips. Rumplestiltskin had tried to heal himself, but the results were minimal… perhaps the spell-soaked iron still rode his blood. He’d made-do.

How peculiar, how vulnerable it felt to be examined by Mirana. He wasn’t certain he liked it, despite wanting a dismissal of civility, formality between them. He wanted a closeness of bodies, a revelation of bared skin.

However, he hadn’t truly considered his own bared skin. He was still pestered by thoughts of his traveling companions… a harem of long limbs and flat bellies. The doctor wasn’t especially muscled, but was long and lean. Jefferson and Killian both sported an easy sort of grace; a lithe, animal musculature they seemed to take for granted. Unthinking, they moved like cats and wolves.

Rumplestiltskin felt self-aware in a horrible way, silently pondering age and perceptions of masculine beauty as Mirana unwound the binding from his ribs. The tall table and his dangling legs made him feel childish, which – given his awareness of the aging process – made him feel feeble. He scowled, staring down at his knees. He couldn’t meet Mirana’s eyes.

“It was the people you look to save from the witch who did this to you?”

Rumplestiltskin nodded. “One, really. Others merely watched.”

“I do not like these people.”

That made Rumplestiltskin grin, still observing the bony shape of his knees, the fold of his trousers.

“They can be tiresome.” He agreed. “But they’re also under Zelena’s spell. Their actions are her doing.”

Mirana’s hands began to soothe over his torso, palms flat to his skin. A tingling sort of warmth followed her path, seeping into his body, and yet he shivered. It felt very intimate, the touch. At times it was nearly an embrace, her hands moving to caress up and down his back before returning to his flanks.

He was black, blue and yellow; colorful in a sickly way. Purple mottling showed broken blood vessels, some of them spreading out from the darkest places where bones had fractured, organs had swelled.

As Mirana touched him, he began to find that his breath came easier, with less pain. Unable to stop the sudden spasm of his diaphragm, the push of his lungs to gulp air, he took a shuddering, deep breath. The pain was still sharp at the broadest point of his lung’s expansion, but was bearable.

“You’re remarkable, dearie.”

He felt her shrug. It moved into her arms and hands, a little ripple in the tingling warmth.

“Bones are a specialty.” She said. “I like to knit.”

“Ah. A lovely accompaniment to my spinning.”

Rumplestiltskin risked a look up, meeting her eyes. They were liquid and warm, a doe’s eyes. She smiled at him.

With more pressure in her touch, she asked, “How does this feel?”

“Very good.”

“Does it hurt?” She squeezed, though not with much force. Her hands pressed at his ribs, then moved to his back. He winced a little as she pressed over his kidneys.

“ _Here_.” She confirmed. He didn’t bother to answer, his gasp affirmation enough. He’d been pissing blood for days.

Her touch became light again… her hands barely made contact, and the pocket of heat between her palms and Rumplestiltskin’s skin became very intense. She stood close to him, her arms around his body.

He wanted to embrace her in return, but couldn’t pull himself from the amped-up magic as it shifted from organ to organ. It was more of a hurt than a feeling of comfort, yet it was a hurt he craved… the deep and painful itch of a healing wound. His back burned in a way that felt necessary.

“ _Breathe_.” Mirana said, softly. Her own breath was at his ear.

He nodded. Dropping his head, he rested his forehead to her shoulder. A part of himself erupted into an almost evil glee, for this was a closeness he’d badly desired and had not achieved. The eruption was distant, however. His action had come from necessity rather than affection or manipulation. His hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white.

When all was restored to normal, he was going to whack Nolan in the nuts with the handle of his cane, like a putter. Repeatedly.

“It’s a deep injury.” Mirana said, her voice still quiet.

Rumplestiltskin nodded, his forehead a bony roll on her shoulder. He felt the focus, the force of her concentration. He felt magic honing in on his hurt parts, moving and shifting within his body.

“I do not like these people.” She repeated.

“You have my explicit permission to beat them all senseless.”

“I could feed them to the Jabberwocky.” She cheerfully suggested.

“Indeed. A Jabberwocky must eat.”

Mirana giggled, and a hot-cold little burst, a shower of sparks lit inside Rumplestiltskin. It was comprised of both pleasure and pain, and he could not quite bite back his moan.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Rumple. I lost focus.”

“Not at all, love.”

Mirana kept one hand at his back; her other rose to his nape. Her fingers moved into his hair, petting and stroking. They pressed up against his skull.

“What about in here?” she asked. “How do matters stand, here?”

“Oh… dark, dearie. But that pre-dates the witch.”

“Mm.”

The heat of her hand permeated the fused bones of his skull. It was very pleasant, but as light suffused his inner eye, he wondered if Mirana was slow-cooking his brains. He felt he was in no small danger of drooling on her shoulder. Her fingers pressed and soothed, nape to skull, and he felt a heavy lull that teased with an edge of arousal. It was a sleepy, dreamy sort of arousal. Rumplestiltskin breathed another soft moan, the weight of his head heavier on Mirana’s shoulder.

He felt her intake of breath at his moan, and then – with a small step – her embrace became true. Rumplestiltskin widened his legs, his arms rising at last to pull her close, to wrap around her. Her dress, covered in notions and beads, felt strange against his bare skin. But her body was warm, her hands on his back and at his nape like a drug. He buried his face in her hair, scenting a hot gardenia scent as well as the green of the Hedge; the scent of an oncoming hurricane, born of her magic.

Arms encircling, a tight hold, he nuzzled to her neck and kissed her there, feeling heat beneath her hair, a leap at her pulse.

He’d overstepped; he knew it at once. He heard Mirana’s small gasp and felt her stiffen, then she backed away a step. She still touched him, but her hands moved to her upper arms. His hands landed at her waist.

“I’m sorry, dearie.” He murmured, face coloring. Her sudden back-step was jarring within the trance-like feeling of her magic, her warmth.

“No… you needn’t be.” Mirana’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes troubled. “I just..”

She faltered, unable to explain herself. Rumplestiltskin gave a small squeeze at her waist.

“Not to fret, love.”


	6. Want Some, Mate?

Mirana sent Rumplestiltskin away with a vial of potion, and instructed him to pour it into his bath, to complete his healing. He followed her directions.

The baths in Marmoreal were not private. They weren’t the en suite or down-the-hall arrangement Rumplestiltskin had become so cozy with in Storybrooke. Even in the Enchanted Forest; in his home in The Deadlands; his big, copper tub had been his, alone. Until Belle.

Uncomfortable with public nudity, something he found rather distasteful, he waited until late to visit the baths. The bath chamber, as he’d anticipated, was empty. It was a large room which contained three tubs, sunk into the floor, and two enormous fireplaces which yawned wide, across from each other. They burned low at his arrival; the baths steamed. The scent of cinders and rain, saturated, charred wood, and water rushing over mineral was strong. The chamber flickered with the light of the cavernous fireplaces. Wall sconces held candles of beeswax.

Still, the shadows lengthened and danced. The water was black, the light only a glimmer on its surface.

Knowing Mirana’s predilection for both the dead and for the mysterious ways of fungus, Rumplestiltskin expected an earthy scent to emerge from the vial; perhaps a medicinal scent. Instead, he was met with voluptuous sensuality… over-the-top, even. As he emptied the vial into the water, the heavy scent of roses began to fill the room, the scent both fresh and blatantly sexual; intense. As he undressed, freed now of bandages and dressings, the scent warmed. It changed to a dark woods, then to nutmeg.

As he descended the stone steps into the tub, the water like warm silk, lapping against his skin, the scent was again roses. It was nearly too heavy, tasted at the back of the throat. It wriggled inside his body, waking it and making suggestions.

Closing his eyes, he sat on a bench-like ledge that circled the tubs interior. He leaned back, his head engulfed in steam, and spent a pleasant period of time contemplating Mirana’s sexuality. Surely it was in there, somewhere… the startled pink of her blush would seem a small affirmation.

Within the luscious feel of the water and the headiness of a spell made of roses, he imagined her scents; of a cooler nature. She was a ghost, walking barefoot on snow. She was white tea and wild ginger.

She was the wind that blew across The Deadlands of his home, stirring up gorse and owl feather, whispering to the dead in their barrows; the hollow hills.

He was half-hard and dreamy when he heard echoing steps, heavy boots ringing out on stone, the sound bouncing around the chamber. With reluctance, he opened his eyes.

“Greetings, Dark One.” Killian’s tone was ironic, his white smile crooked and wry. “I can’t say I ever thought to stumble upon you, naked.”

Bloody hell. Though stronger now, his nakedness made Rumplestiltskin feel vulnerable. To his dismay, Killian began to undress.

“It smells like a brothel in here.” He observed. Pausing, nose to the air in his wolfish way, he amended, “Or perhaps a funeral.”

Ah, Rumplestiltskin thought. That’s what it was. Mirana’s flower-potent concoction had fooled him, rude images surfacing of his fingers delving into the centers of roses, the central petals folded tight. Killian was right… the mixture of roses, cloying and hypnotic, with the woodsy scent of yew, of turned dirt… It was Mirana’s spirit world at work, after all. The ghost world. Sadly, he let notions of her blush slip away. They played in the shadows, still flirting with him, nymph-like.

“Aye.” He agreed with Killian. “It’s Mirana’s potion. She’s healing me.”

Killian paused in his undressing, and Rumplestiltskin stared up at him, somewhat caught. _Look away,_ his mind commanded, but his eyes were stuck. There was a forced intimacy about the baths that was not supposed to be uncommon to his gender, but it was uncommon to him.

Killian was barefoot, shirtless; his trousers were undone. Rumplestiltskin considered the two of them as separate species. He eyed the long ripple of Killian’s torso, the dark dip around his navel, with a feeling that hovered between admiration and envy. He made a quick study.

Killian asked, “Can you tell me what this all about, mate?” Then he was in motion.

His bare feet did a gliding, somewhat mincing little step around the tub, so that – at one point – Rumplestiltskin had to lean his head back and observe, upside-down. Killian’s hand and hook were alight, the hand far more expressive. It turned about his wrist, held at shoulder height, and he gazed with a dreamy wistfulness into a vague distance, seen only by himself.

Rumplestiltskin smiled, pleased with the sense of immediate recognition. “It’s just her way.” He said, quietly. The mimicry wasn’t half-bad.

The pirate continued his ballet for a moment, flashing eyes dramatic in the semi-darkness.

“You’re quite good at it, dearie. You may have missed your true calling.”

“… To be a queen?” Killian landed back at his heap of clothing.

“Perhaps.” Rumplestiltskin smirked. “Or an exotic dancer.”

“You find me _exotic_ , do you?” Killian’s smile was happily naughty. “But _why_ is that her way? I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

With a shrug, Rumplestiltskin said, “I suppose it’s a bit of a mask. It keeps others at a distance. It separates her from…”

“… The riff-raff?” Killian suggested. He pulled down and stepped out of his trousers, revealing a rugged terrain of heathenism. Riff-raff.

Rumplestiltskin looked quickly down to the dark water, unwilling to let his gaze linger on the ponderous, heavy dangle between the pirate’s legs.

“Gods, you’re hairy.” He muttered. He risked a peek as Killian said, “Aye.” His fingers scratched through dark hair at his crotch, and Rumplestiltskin wondered about vermin as he stepped down into the tub.

Well. This was cozy.

Killian exhaled, a long breath, a heavy sigh. Fingers pinched to his nose, he dipped his head back into the water, briefly submerged. He resurfaced, hair selkie-slick and face running with water. His brows and eyelashes were inky-black.

It hit Rumplestiltskin again, the image of Killian kneeling, holding his ring of keys. Releasing him, digit by digit.

“Fancy a smoke, mate?”

Rumplestiltskin made a querulous sound – _eh_? – and Killian turned, reaching to his discarded coat. Well. Clearly insanity had struck, and struck with a vigor. Maybe Mirana’s flower-drug-potion had altered his perception. Perhaps it had slipped into his pores and up his arse, and now he was feeling a sexual tug that might be considered generalized.

He felt the tug towards Killian. He watched the play of shadow and light on Killian’s long back… the upper part of his bum emerged as he rooted around in his coat. Rumplestiltskin stared at the hint of curving buttock and the start of arse-crack, stuck. _Pull it together_ , he thought. _You imbecilic fuckhead._

When Killian turned around again, he held a pouch. With an interesting play of hand and hook, he emptied a portion of it onto the stone floor, then began a process of rolling the contents into small papers.

One done, he twisted to reach for his coat again, but stopped. He gave Rumplestiltskin a sly look. “Have you got mojo in you enough for a light?”

Nodding, Rumplestiltskin said, “Aye.” He watched with an edge of wariness as Killian crossed the diameter of the tub and came to sit beside him.

“Well, then. Do the honors, would you, mate.”

It was a simple thing, and it felt good. Rumplestiltskin made a fist, then let his hand open, flower-like. Into the scent of water, roses and cemeteries came a restless scent of storms, a whisper of honey. A flame danced in the palm of his hand, very warm but not hurtful. He watched Killian lean into it, his cigarette held to his puckered lips. He sucked, cheeks hollowing as he sparked the dried leaf to light.

Another scent emerged; it was becoming a recipe, the list of ingredients running long. A scent spell, the old way to catch the attention of the gods, for better or worse. The scent was darkly green, touched with an equally dark chocolate. It moved into the thick, velvety-red of the roses. Rumplestiltskin felt a mild swoon, the dream-like yet intense scent of chocolate as hypnotic as the flowers. The sticky, sap-green was alert, in opposition.

Killian sat upright, a wet wolf, the path of water down his body making rivulets and streams through his fur. He sucked deeply on the cigarette, his eyes closing. Rumplestiltskin watched his chest expand, his forehead tense, then become smooth.

After a long exhalation, a dragon-plume of fragrant smoke, he held the cigarette to Rumplestiltskin’s lips. It felt peculiar, and for a moment Rumplestiltskin was frozen. Something was very wrong about the knuckles of his enemy’s remaining hand so near his lips, without violence.

“Want some, mate?”

Killian’s voice was low, perhaps mellow with the smoke. He raised a brow in question, and Rumplestiltskin leaned into the offering. As on Mirana’s table, his hands were gripped to the ledge upon which he sat. Lips barely touching against the backs of Killian’s forefinger and thumb, he sucked in smoke.

“There you go.” Killian said, staisfied. He took another hit while Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes, holding in smoke for as long as he could.

It burned his tongue. It burned his throat and lungs. It felt good. The smoke danced around Mirana’s healing, stroking her spell-notes and lingering amongst them.

As soon as he exhaled, staring up into darkness, where – surely – there must be a ceiling, Killian moved closer. “Open wide, Imp.” he murmured.

Rumplestiltskin flinched to feel Killian’s fingers under his chin, Killian’s thumb near the corner of his mouth. Under the dark, silky stillness of water, Killian’s body was close to his, the water a slippery buffer.

Leaning back, Rumplestiltskin huffed, “I will _not_.” His space was much invaded. He was not at all certain of what was happening, but his hackles raised. Or… they meant to raise, but were rather lulled by ensorcellment and drugs.

“Don’t be churlish.” Killian grinned, cigarette clenched in his teeth. He spoke from the side of his mouth.

His thumb was insistent at the corner of Rumplestiltskin’s mouth. Then the thumb was gone, and Rumplestiltskin watched him suck in smoke, face dark with stubble and shadow. It was impossible to see the blue of his eyes, but the whites flashed.

He leaned down, and – reflexively – Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth. If taking a hit while Killian held the cigarette had been strange, this was beyond the pale. He closed his eyes, feeling the light touch of Killian’s lips, barley against his. He felt wet skin and stubble, scented something hot, animal and close. He scented something that made him think; _boy_.

Smoke poured into him, much more than when he’d inhaled on his own. He felt as though he inflated, chest expanding and newly knit ribs stretching. His spine lengthened, his fingers splayed out, feeling water and aware of being felt by water.

The burn was stronger. It rolled down his gullet, and all he could see in his mind’s eyes was a Curse rolling in… clouds piled upon clouds, a tsunami of smoke, its approach swift and without mercy.

He held the smoke, feeling Killian lean away, and when he exhaled it was with a long and very satisfied groan. Killian chuckled, puffing out smoke, which was a little irksome… but the sound and the jab of irritation seemed very far away.

 

 


	7. Mo' Better Gay

Jefferson was just the slightest bit jealous. It made him feel squeamish about himself, irritated that he could be nagged by such a juvenile leaning; the queasy insecurity of it. It was a feeling that manifested with an internal feeling of slime, a sickly coating.

On this jump of necessity, it had never occurred to him that Victor might make a connection. The White Queen; the one who’d left Rumplestiltskin smitten and impulsive on their last jump… How was it she’d cast some sort of spell over Victor, as well?

They were best pals, it seemed, and they played games together which held no real interest for Jefferson. They communicated in ways foreign to him, and he found himself just at the verge of acting like a hysterical, jilted woman. Hands on hips, face wide-eyed and dramatic; _If you have such a connection with someone like her, I can’t see why you like me at all!_ Huff-puff, blow some houses down with the power of one’s possessiveness, insecurity roaring at full throttle. And now we _flounce_. And now we _stomp_.

A hissy-fit; it lurked. It was lodged in his chest and strangled his throat with a need to come springing out; theatrical and attention getting. He might do a grand swirl in a cloak, Bela Lugosi-style. Snarl with fangs.

Well, he couldn’t let it happen. Victor wasn’t one to take such displays with any degree of seriousness, nor did he give much credence to Jefferson’s ability to posture broadly and display a flamboyant boredom. He would only raise a brow and politely ask if Jefferson could be more gay.

… _Maybe_. It was something Jefferson had in abundance. Gayness and madness… he had reserves.

Plus… well, Victor and Mirana were just friends. That was the crux of it, if not the Horcrux. Who was he to deny Victor a friend?

The problem was that he felt left out. He’d grown very used to Victor’s brand of dysfunction, which included not having any friends. It worked so well with his own variety of dysfunction, which included wanting everything all to himself.

He’d tried to join in the little Victor-Mirana circle, puppy-trailing Victor to Mirana’s laboratory. But, bleh. It was just weird. It was exactly as weird as when he’d watched her make the Hat-fetching brew with Rumplestiltskin. Smells both fart-heinous and kitchen-alluring mixed with fancy ingredients like _fingers_ and… something that might have been a variety of sea-vegetable, or perhaps a difficult to identify organ. How could one know?

The White Queen was pretty – in her odd way – but her eyes lit up at corpse-like things. Of course, so did Victor’s.

It was weird, freaky-weird, and there was Victor… his mad scientist, at play in Mirana’s laboratory of the occult.

Even outside of the laboratory he’d spied Victor strolling, arm-in-arm with Mirana, those two pale heads, together. White-skinned creatures with a shared predilection for body parts and raising the dead. They conferred. They shared convoluted, dry jokes that no one else understood, sometimes bursting into laughter simply because they met one another’s eyes.

Were they freaking telepathic?

 

 

 

Jefferson found that, yes; he could be more gay. He leaned back in a very elaborate, probably gay, much embellished chair of some curlicued, Wonderland design. It’s wood frame was painted egg-shell white and gilted, and it complimented his excursion into mo’ better gay. Fancified, _gentrified_ gay.

Eyes rolling, elaborately cavalier and hands a bit limp at the ends of outstretched, be-frocked arms, he made his voice droll and pompous and every ounce the spoiled rich boy.

It wasn’t a role he’d known in what he thought of as his real life, or past life… growing up years, marriage, fatherhood. It had all been scrounging. But Regina’s Curse had seen fit to place him, scrambled brains and all, in an ivory tower of mysterious wealth in Storybrooke.  He didn’t work. He was a trust fund baby with silver rattles and golden play-pretties. Mystifying collections of hats and guns.

He knew it grated on Victor, and sometimes he used a lofty, richer-than-thou, snobbish posturing to _poke_ at him.

“ _Oh_ … You’re such a fucking _weirdo_ , Victor. I’m getting sooooo _bored_ , watching you play snake doctor with Madam Zombie. You know, we’re here for an actual reason. We’re not on holiday. _Grace_ is one of those left behind, under Zelena’s curse.”

Victor had been moving about their tasteful, elegant quarters. Marble, so much marble. There must be a quarry nearby and a host of artisans. Wall hangings and thick rugs offset the coldness that went hand-in-hand with such elegance.

Victor had a habit of reading while pacing, something Jefferson felt certain would induce vomiting in himself. As predicted, the pacing stopped. Victor lowered his book and stared, a little blank-faced.

“Jefferson, could you be more gay?”

To show that – _yes! He could!_ – Jefferson uncrossed and re-crossed his legs, a long and lithe expression of very important fashion whore. One dangling, well-booted foot nodded. It was a seated flounce, a little angst thrown into a pout, for emphasis. He was an exclamation point, and – in his head – Jefferson heard the startling burst, the two-note opening of Beethoven’s Ninth.

Lacking a scarf to fling over his shoulder in disdain, he lifted his chin and huffed. The maneuver was somewhat equine.

“Don’t you like it here?” Victor asked. As always, he appeared baffled by Jefferson’s tantrum. “You’re the one who gets antsy, brother. Always looking to make a jump. We can’t really head back until your former boss whips up his mojo. And, one presumes, a mojo-army.”

Jefferson shrugged. Why should rational thought enter into his general sense of dissatisfaction? As a rule, he hated Wonderland like the rotting, sulfuric, lower bowels of hell. But, yes… The White Queen’s kingdom seemed a little pocket of safety.

And yes, there were things he liked. Everything was so overdone, ostentatious and bizarre… he didn’t have to try and fit in. It was comfortable. Rabbits wore fabulous waistcoats and mice were alcoholics, unrepentant. There was something familiar about it… dysfunction was the rule.

“You’re spending all your time with _her_.” he pouted. It was a true pout, his chin tucked to his chest, his mouth tugged into a frown. He uncrossed his legs and they sprawled out as he slumped in the chair. One had to know how to utilize props.

“Oh, poor baby.” Victor said, voice dry and unsympathetic. “Suck it up. You’re a big boy.”

He resumed pacing, eyes scanning over the pages of a book that was one of _hers_. Madam Zombie. Queen Ghoul. Some thin, pamphlet-like affair, bound with stitching and featuring a cover illustration of a centipede or maggot or some such. Jefferson shivered.

“Why do you get such enjoyment from playing with dead things?” he asked.

Victor didn’t bother to answer. Jefferson didn’t know why he’d asked. Long before they’d started sleeping together; centuries, it seemed; he’d helped Victor to procure a heart. (Fucker could use one.)

Reanimation; that was Victor’s thing. It was less about dead things and more about overcoming death, creating life… albeit in a non-traditional fashion. To Jefferson, the denial involved in such an undertaking seemed exhausting.

Sometimes Jefferson wished he hadn’t formed such an attachment. Their natures were very different, and Jefferson found himself wondering… oh, why? Why make his topsy-turvy life that much more complicated by taking up with this person? Victor could be so cold at times, while Jefferson ran red-hot, barely under control. Victor could keep a peculiar, lonely sort of distance. He also had an annoying habit of speaking in song lyrics.

Coming home in scrubs and beat-up, canvas sneakers, looking worn out and irritated with the world, Victor sometimes beheld rich and lazy Jefferson with an air of contempt.

“This ain’t no party.” He’d say. “This ain’t no _disco_.”

On the other hand, moments happened… and they just sucked Jefferson in.

Thinking that he would flirt, engage in a playful seduction, he’d brought one of Mirana’s horrifyingly pretty, candied hearts to Victor. It was a replay of their first meeting. He’d offered it; voice deep and purring, he’d said, “ _I give you my heart on a platter_.” For the thing was, indeed, served on a little plate.

Victor’s eyes had moved over the glistening, ruby-red and hematite-touched object. His eyes, a very pale, grey shade of blue, met Jefferson’s. A smile played at his lips. He’d said, “It _has_ been said… that I’m heartless.”

… And so, it was Jefferson who’d been seduced.

 


	8. Other Crows

The crow strutted and talked. It was a big, black crow, the sort Mirana saw in great numbers, a river flowing high in the sky. In flight, they chuckled at one another; _ha-ha_. The crow had a mottling of white about its ruff.

She had a pet crow, Bethany, who was all white. White animals and birds came to her… they found her, then sought her camouflage and protection. Bethany didn’t speak, other than crow-speak. The black crow, in its overdone swagger over soft, green grasses spoke to her as did the speaking-animal population of Wonderland.

“White Queen.” It croaked, and gave her a sideways look, observing with one, dark eye.

She sank to the ground, where already her bare toes dug in to feel sun-warmed earth. Her dress was a soft wave beneath her. She said, “Yes?”

The black crow began to walk around her in a circle, as if doing a ritualistic dance. Shuffle-shuffle-hop. It closed in, then flopped to its back. It made a rattle-clack sound that seemed akin to a purr, and Mirana – on instinct- reached out and stroked its belly.

The crow muttered, “ _Mmmm_ …. That’s lovely, dearie.”

Then she knew. Though she’d been briefly deceived, she broke into a smile. It was too funny; somber Rumplestiltskin laying in the sun with clawed, horny feet straight up in the air. Campaigning to be pet. She wondered a bit about the state of his toenails.

“Rumple… You look _different_ today.”

“Aye.” Crow-Rumple agreed.

“I didn’t know you could shift your shape.”

“A little.” Rattle-trill. “But only if the shape is _dark_.”

“Hm.” Mirana considered. She stroked one finger over the crow-head, near the eye – where Bethany was always itchy. Crow-Rumple squeezed his eye shut; little black bead, glossy; and purred in his gravelly, corvid way.

It was clever of him, Mirana thought. She liked him so well, yet found herself so often shy. She was so singular a person, unused to touch… aside from animals. It was clever of him to transform into a shape she could touch freely, with warm indulgence.

She scratched around his beak, over his feathery throat, watching the ragged crow-head lean back, eyes still squeezed shut in birdy ecstasy. For a moment, her mind transposed the man inside the bird into her presence… Rumplestiltskin, in his strange clothes, sprawled on the grass and swooned to her touch.

She shivered, a violent feeling in her body. Crow-Rumple seemed to sense it; his eyes opened.

“How now, dearie?”

 

 

 

In Mirana’s dream, it was she who was a crow, white, like Bethany. Rumplestiltskin was a man, if a man he truly was, and he stood on the ground beneath a stormy sky.

She’d begun the dream not as a bird or woman, but as a small girl. There was a confusion of feeling… her feelings were far larger than herself, spreading out over Wonderland; looming. She saw the ghost-shadows of her feelings stretch from her castle to the ocean, where they hid in dunes and watched long lines of fiddler crabs, on the march.

They dwarfed her, making her little. In her small form, she ran up to Rumplestiltskin. Was he friend, benefactor, father, lover? It was impossible to say, all of the large feelings building, opening fissures in the land. The sea roiled; it conspired to the storm.

She was becoming dangerous to herself and others… she wished to escape.

He’d knelt down on one knee, and she’d looked into his dark eyes. Small as she was, they swallowed her. His eyes were warm, rich… their darkness was liquid, like ink. Secrets swam in the liquid, under the shelter of deeply hooded lids.

She stood on tip-toe and cupped her hand to his ear, as she’d once done with her own father. In court, people all over and important business afoot, she’d urgently whisper, “I have to pee!” Or, perhaps, “The Hedge doesn’t like this.”

In her dream, her lips brushed against Rumplestiltskin’s ear and felt velvet, apricot skin. His hair tickled her, and she smelled deep autumn. Wood-smoke, the decay of leaves and the crisp air; sorrow, so hard to pin down, that was also beauty. _Cold is coming_ , the scent said. Warmth is _here_ , in this little circle. Feather, fur and fire. _Family_.

At his ear, she whispered, “ _Make me a bird_.”

Low, dark clouds, the light nearly snuffed out, an unearthly glow. Far distant thunder rumbled, and webs of lightning could be seen to the north. In her courtyard, overgrown with wisteria and creeping thyme, dream-Victor stood on flagstones and stared… the light, nearly invisible hairs on his arms stood to the electricity…. She felt a memory of stroking her hand just above the surface of his skin, watching the pale hairs follow her path. Dream-Jefferson was not far behind and watched Victor, wary of the sky.

But Rumplestiltskin was far away from the courtyard, very near the Hedge. It reached for him, it grasped… but he had different magic. The feelers of the Hedge touched it, felt and tasted the new magic. It drank the magic, lapping as does a cat lap milk, but could neither exhaust or penetrate it.

Big drops of water began to pelt down, and Mirana looked down from her crow-flight. Rumplestiltskin had made her into a bird. He stood far below, arms up, face upturned to the storm and to herself. Somehow, he commanded her.

It made her dizzy… the long, elliptical circle of her flight, a buoyant thing she felt in her belly. She rode an invisible river. She felt a connection to Victor as if a strand of webbing held them together, vibrations along the strand sending messages to both. She felt his bewitchment, his beguilement.

She felt the pull of Rumplestiltskin. The Hedge tugged at her, as well… it told her; _demon may command, and witch may fly._

He _did_. He _did_ command. Mirana felt it more than any other element of her dream. She circled and looped, circled and looped. She came to him, rocket-fast, and landed on his out-stretched arm.

He brought his forearm level to his face. He kissed her feathery head.

 

 


	9. Small and Imaginary Friends

To be queen, Mirana had to put away childish things. So she’d been told. The truth was that she was quite secretive; she hid a great deal. She pretended to put away childish things, just as she pretended away any signs of weakness. Instability. She laughed at spoken notions of her sorcery.

Her corsets were laced tight and held her up, posture impeccable. Years of borderline-abusive dance instructors had taught her how to move, so that she always seemed set apart from others. She was above them. _Better than_ , one teacher hissed, a haughty swan who lashed out with a harsh bill, leaving bruises and welts on the backs of Mirana’s thighs.

Other instructors imparted the same lessons… fencing, speech, all manner of etiquette. They all taught her to take on every appearance of being a queen. It was important, her father once told her, to keep a division between herself and her denizens. She had to be larger than life to earn their respect, their allegiance. She had to _be_ her kingdom.

It was asking a lot. _Big shoes to fill_ , her parents once said. Now, she refused to wear shoes.

The only thing she’d wanted was to be left alone. The Hedge called to her _constantly_ … it had its own wants, its own agenda, quite apart from the concerns of Marmoreal. It called to her and was so much a part of her, she often couldn’t tell it apart from what might truly be herself.

Early on, she’d somewhat rebelled. Put away childish things, indeed. How could she? It was all she was.

The women of Marmoreal were tutored to a spirituality of goddesses; the lessons spilled out in a very natural way from the Hedge, as did lessons of a Horned God… a Jack in the Green. The women grew within a triad of goddesses who followed the path of the moon, and thus moved through stages of maiden, mother and crone. Birth, life; then the long illusion, the dream-work of death.

Mirana’s path had both delayed and accelerated. She was born with maiden and crone already fully manifested, but never quite grew into the maturity of mother.

She mothered animals; she mothered the Hedge…. But she didn’t fall in love with a man… she didn’t take a king. Her maiden never ripened so that she gave of herself… and there were women who whispered that she was selfish. She never bore a child. She did her best to raise herself.

Years and years that should have been… simply were not. Instead, there were childish things. There was the knowledge and trepidation of an old woman. There were so many secrets, so much to hide.

Many in Marmoreal loved Mirana, and yet – before the travelers – she’d long been friendless.

 

 

 

The White Queen sat among her White Ladies and hid things. She pretended. She wore a crown, an open design like petals on a water lily. Its weight served to remind her. _You are not a ghost. You are not born of the Hedge. You do not seek the counsel of imaginary friends._

The crown lied, as was its nature. It lied as costumes so often do. Even when a costume reveals an inner truth, it does so through lies.

_Rumplestiltskin can be like that_.

It was one of them… imaginary friends, things best kept hidden. There was a tribe, little witches no bigger than Mirana’s hand. They sprang into being when she was still little, herself, and it had taken quite some time for her to understand that they lived in her mind’s eye. They were vivid to her, solid. Sometimes, her dark eyes casting about at things others didn’t see, part of her Queenly persona; it was the little witches she watched.

The one who spoke was an old biddy. She chewed her cud, it seemed. She spat from a wrinkled mouth, vile stuff. Her skirt was faded tartan and she was made bottom-heavy by a makeshift bustle.

_Demons lie_.

Mirana gave a gentle nod. Her ladies, if they noticed, interpreted it as a graceful sway to one’s inner music. They would soon mimic her demeanor, a court of people giving soft and gentle nods. A court all gone pulpy in the head, drifting about like dandelion seeds.

However, they were as stirred up as she. The visitors, the travelers were responsible, changing the very molecules around them. They altered the air. They shook up energy, and it vibrated.

Mirana was supposed to be doing something useful with this quiet time…. Her ladies sewed, some spun or carded. They made useful, functional things. Mirana had ledgers to reconcile, proposals to turn down in a diplomatic fashion.

The Queen of Hearts and her bloody Red Knight… they were a perennial threat. Mirana needed a knight. She should schedule interviews.

Instead, she embroidered without purpose. Her white cloth, of no particular cut, grew lush with unicorns, dragons, manticores and serpents. Green faces from the Hedge peered from foliage and birds soared in storm clouds. An angel appeared to fall. A near-naked woman slept among fallen apples.

One of her ladies, a girl called Gretchen, sighed heavily. It was a sign of the disturbed molecules.

“So many men.” She said, her voice uncertain and wistful.

A murmur passed amongst the ladies, and Mirana set down her embroidery, looking at them. They were as full of artifice as she, but they’d warmed. Blushes suffused cheeks made pale with tinted powders. Tendrils of natural-colored hair slipped from beneath wigs of silvery white-blonde. Mirana so wished her entire kingdom would not take its fashion from herself. Though they meant otherwise, it seemed a mockery of her flaws.

“Yes.” She said to Gretchen, who looked to be on the verge of not maintaining perfect posture. She might sprawl a bit. Her legs inched open, muscles at the inner thighs weary of maintaining a steely vigilance.

Mirana was certain that the bones of her legs and hips would creak should she relax her stance. Cobwebs would have to be dusted from between.

“So much _flesh_.” Another said. Bhema. A wicked smile bloomed on lips painted wraith-pale.

The ladies tittered.

It was true. None was used to the look, the _feel_ of a pack of handsome men, foreign and intriguing, setting up shop and generally taking over. They drank, they smoked, they swore. Their trousers were tight and raised questions of a Horned God nature. They were riveting, and the ladies were riveted. They came with an array of different voices, laughs and smells. Not all of the smells were pleasant.

“But they only seem to want each other.” Gretchen complained.

Another gentle nod. “Yes.” Mirana agreed.

It was Jefferson and Victor that Gretchen bemoaned. No amount of perfumed and rounded bosom could capture their attention. Jefferson might fancy the corsets.

The little witches were listening, feeling up the situation. They did bawdy things… rude hand gestures and sly looks. They were young and old, sporting different styles and attitudes. They made eyes at Mirana, daring her to break her composure.

“Not that Killian.” A woman called Angelique said. “He’s got an eye for the ladies.”

A wee witch poked her forefinger into a circle made by the opposite forefinger and thumb. Mirana sighed, pretty sure she understood the gesture.

“I don’t know.” Gretchen still mourned. “He’s always running to that – “ Her voice took an abrupt halt, words swallowed. Awkwardness hung in the air.

Mirana looked back down to her fanciful embroidery, a smile playing about her lips. A shifting of bodies moved through the room in an uncomfortable manner. Skin was hot, breath was both shallow and deep… it was no time for corsets and crinolines.

_That Imp_ , Gretchen might have said. _That devil_. Or perhaps it was only _that old man_. Mirana’s ladies were not overly fond of Rumplestiltskin… It was true that he could be distant, even rude, albeit in a polite way. He wasn’t handsome, like his companions. His trousers were not tight.

But they knew she was fond of him. Gretchen had forgotten herself, pining for romance… flirting with lust.

Mirana considered it; Killian was always running to Rumplestiltskin. Killian was as foreign to her, as unknown as great cats in fabled jungles. She could never tell when he joked or when he was in earnest. In small ways, he frightened her.

_“Yo_ , White Girls.” Said a distinctly masculine voice, different from every male voice native to Marmoreal. Perhaps there had been inbreeding.

Looking up, Mirana beheld Leroy. Her ladies giggled. Their delicate hands covered the parting of their pale lips, but their spines stretched and their breasts pushed against their bodices. As in novels, bosoms heaved. They threatened to leap out into the open, bouncing for joy at the sudden and unexpected freedom.

“Leroy.” Mirana smiled.

He stood among them, a small-yet-stout package of manhood. His head was quite bald, his brows and beard were dark and bristling. Like Rumplestiltskin, his eyes were deep and dark, but their expression was very different. His eyes could be wary, guarded… but they were also open and hopeful. Especially in the presence of food or drink.

His eyes, almost black, twinkled. They were merry.

“It’s a crying shame, girls. I heard you talking about my less than friendly buds. But fear not.” His grin grew huge. “I’m here for you. I _got_ you.  I got your flesh right here.” He patted a broad and barreled chest.

Another murmuring of giggles rippled through the room. The air warmed. A scent of flowers and sweet perfume became hot and disturbing. The room was overtly female… it was too much, and Mirana felt suffocated. But Leroy appeared to relax into it.

He sat down on the floor, where he gazed, big-eyed, up at women seated in chairs. His eyes dropped to the toes of shoes that peeped from beneath voluminous skirts; beaded and embroidered slippers. He appeared to note the wide-set spread of hidden legs, contemplating, as he was often to be seen contemplating the kitchen.

“You’re not like your friends?” One of the ladies asked, smiling into her dewy blush.

“Aw, heck nah. They’re fools, sister. I know what’s good. I would never spurn women so sweet and pretty as all of you.”

He grinned again, and Mirana stopped herself from rolling her eyes. He was at their service, the little man. Such generosity.

Laughing, Angelique said, “Surely you couldn’t manage _all_ of us.”

The little witches had staged a mock orgy. They often showed Mirana things of which she was completely ignorant. They tried to teach. _Expand your horizons_! One or another often said, but the Hedge and the ocean were Mirana’s horizons.

They trundled out a little bear-man, and began a lewd sort of group petting.

“Sure, I can. “Leroy assured the Ladies. In an odd, playful accent, he added, “Am small, but strong like bull.”

Small bear. Small bull. Mirana had no plans, no desire to stay and see what her ladies would make of Leroy’s egalitarian offers, but the visions her witches imparted were making her troubled. She blushed, as agitated as her ladies, and thought unworthy thoughts about Rumplestiltskin.

Could she share him? Did she want to see him in the manner in which her little witches displayed their Leroy-mannikin? It planted within her visions of her own… visions of Rumplestiltskin naked, stretched out on his back, her ladies preening over him, fondling parts that remained a little uncertain in her mind’s eye. Visions of his eyes closed, his mouth open… an expression of pleasure.

Startled, she said, “Oh!” Her hand flew up, her fingertips touched her lips and were lightly burned.

“Are you well, my Queen?” One of them asked. Which one; who knew? Mirana couldn’t see properly.

She cursed her little witches. They poured a potion down their bear-man’s throat, a wine-like substance that dribbled from the corners of his mouth and ran down his chest, staining his skin red and soaking into dark chest hair. The eager thing between his legs became even more eager, and the little witches cheered and danced. They celebrated his eagerness.

_Blow the cobwebs away_ , the biddy said to Mirana _. It’s long overdue. You’re not yet as old as me_.

Standing, Mirana said, “Yes, I’m fine. Please excuse me.”

She wasn’t fine. She was bothered. Fevered. She was a little blind, inner vision clouding outer vision. She tripped in an ungainly way as she departed the room, eyes rolling as she caught herself. A wee witch said, _Whoopsy_. On bare feet, she hurried into fresh air that was less saturated with girlhood, womanhood.

Behind her, Leroy said, “So… what’s the haps, White Girls?”

 

 


	10. Handsome Is As Handsome Does

“So… you’re a bit shifty when it comes to sex. Isn’t that right?”

Killian’s statement, or – perhaps – question was directed mainly at Jefferson, who slowly looked up, eyes rather deadpan. By proxy, it was also directed to Victor, who gave a wide, somewhat open-mouthed smile of amusement. His tongue poked at his upper row of teeth and his forefinger poked at Jefferson’s shoulder.

“Yeah, brother. Isn’t that right?”

“I believe the pirate was addressing both of us, dearest.”

Victor sobered, but still looked amused.

Eyes flat, Jefferson’s look bore into Killian. Dark, storm-blue eyes met dark, storm-blue eyes. There was a feeling of the like poles of two magnets, repelling each other.

“What are you getting at, Killian?”

Now uncomfortable, regretful as to his opening words, Killian frowned and shrugged. His hook rose to scratch about in his chest hair, and Jefferson’s eyes tracked it, like a suspicious cat.

“I meant no harm, mate. I just wanted to know if…. If men found me handsome.”

Jefferson’s head, his entire body swiveled to fix Victor with a look of disbelief. Victor gave a brow-raise in return, merriment in his pale eyes.

Turning back to Killian, Jefferson huffed, “Pardon?”

“Never mind, mate. I think I misspoke.”

Victor said, “I think what Mr. Jones is anxious to know is if the male of the species finds him as alluring as does the female. Are we warm for his form? Are we smitten with his kitten?” He glanced at Killian’s crotch, and Killian looked affronted to have anything he kept there referred to as a “kitten”.

“ _Really_?” Jefferson asked, eyeing Killian. “Do you have to have them _all_?”

Leaning forward, Killian braced his forearms on his thighs. Hand and hook dangled. His face colored, making his overall appearance even darker.

“No, I don’t _have_ to have… “He shook his head, then muttered, “I was just curious.”

“ _Bi-curious_.” Victor stage whispered to Jefferson, and Killian blushed harder.

Folding his arms across his chest, Jefferson leaned back and assessed. Victor leaned forward, their heads conferring together. Victor stroked his chin.

“Yeah.” Jefferson concluded. “You’re… handsome, I suppose. But… all the hair, man. Like, your nose hair is threatening to grow into your moustache.”

“Right?” Victor concurred.

Squirming, Killian said, “Aye?”

“Yeah.” Jefferson nodded. “Do you have a hairy ass?”

Killian’s eyes went a little wild. One brow soared, the other descended into a glower. Startled, he blurted, “ _No_. What the devil, mate?”

“That’s probably good.” Victor said, “Although there are plenty of men who like all that body hair.”

“But, he’s not really a bear.” Jefferson muttered, an aside. “Nor a daddy. He’s just… _hairy_.”

“Rough trade?” Victor suggested. “He’s kinda wolfy.”

Jefferson frowned; they both stared at Killian.

Standing, Killian said, “I have no earthly idea what the two of you are saying. I regret asking. I need a bloody drink.” He ambled off, opening his flask with his teeth.

“If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the queer kitchen, sweetheart.” Jefferson said, mostly to himself.

Snickering, Victor said, “Jesus. You’re such a brat.” Calling after Killian, he asked, “ _Yo_! Brother, who are you looking to snag with your bipartisan handsomeness?”

Killian didn’t answer, however. He continued on his path _away_ , taking comfort from rum.

Shanking his head, Jefferson said, “If you don’t know, Victor, you’re blind. _Pft_. You call yourself a scientist.”

 

 


	11. The Mermaid

The spiral staircase that led far below the castle was of broad, cold and carved stone. The carvings were mostly of a strange language, embellished now and again with animals, with twining images of foliage and foliate faces.

It was too dark to make a true study… it became darker, the further down Rumplestiltskin descended. Torches perched in sconces along the walls, throwing shadows that shivered and stretched, wraith-like and black, reaching around curves. Eventually, the high ceiling seemed to disappear altogether, and the wide stair opened to a yawning, seemingly endless dark cave.

Stalactites hung from overhead; quartz, mica… a strange phosphorescence glimmered about the cave’s ceiling; a feeling of stars in darkness. The glimmer and the light of torches was reflected in the black water of an underground lake, an obsidian mirror, from which rose small, rocky islands and glittering stalagmites. It was a stunted kingdom of castles and towers that shone, somewhat reminding Rumplestiltskin of his fortress in the Deadlands. The stillness of the water made for a similar feeling; quiet, but restless.

He approached a shoreline where dark water met pebbles of smooth black, mottled with a white marbling. The mermaid’s interpreter sat alone, cushioned by a comfortable excess of derriere and working on a piece of knitting. Glancing up, she said, “Oh, hello dearie.”

It stopped him for a moment, her use of his habitual, often sneered endearment. Coming from her lips, it sounded benign and amiable. Something spoken while fishing peppermints from apron pockets.

… For she wore and apron. It had large pockets. Beside her, a big carpet-bag was open, her knitting supplies – and who knew what else – therein.

“Hello, _dearie_.” He returned.

His tone was mild. He endeavored not to be his usual, ornery self, but she briefly peered away from her row of knit-stitch. She fixed him with a bright, crystal-grey eye and a frown. Her eyes flickered back to her flashing needles, and she said, “I suppose you’ve come to see herself, then. Unless you’d care to have a cup of tea with the likes of meself.”

Actually, he was there for her. He’d seen his fair share of fish women, oracular or otherwise. It almost never ended well. He was curious as to the link the interpreter shared with the mermaid.

“Aye. Tea would be lovely.”

She looked up again, this time genuinely surprised. She was every bit a stereotype of a variety he could not name, but knew on sight. Her skin looked to have a powdery softness, she was plump and feminine all over, and her hair was a messy halo of auburn curls, touched with silver… as his hair was touched with silver. She was of an age, yet not old. Her appearance of being settled into herself, a comfortable familiarity made her seem older.

“Well, then!” she set her knitting aside. From the carpet-bag, she procured a straw mat and unrolled it upon the rocks. “Set your bones down, then. Rumplestiltskin, is it?”

“It ‘tis.”

He sat down cross-legged on the mat. With a peculiar suddenness, he realized he was surprisingly comfortable in Marmoreal. Perhaps because he’d arrived such a mess, and now didn’t have his customary suit… he didn’t have to adhere to the rigid control of Gold.

He watched while the interpreter, again plundering her mysterious bag, laid out a small spread of scones and blackberry jam. She opened a thermos that sent out an immediate fragrance of black-leaf wakefulness as well as something citrussy. She set out a stout pot of cream.

“I’m Bea.” She said, and Rumplestiltskin thought, _of course you are._  
He nodded in greeting, then glanced to a ripple that formed in the lake, a small sound of _plop_ that sent out ripples.

“That’s Thelma.” Bea pointed with an incline of her head. “She’s broody down there, today. She barely breaks the surface before she’s off again, to hide so deep… I can’t even imagine. Some crevice far below the mountains.”

“Thelma?” Rumplestiltskin repeated with an incredulous brow raise. ‘Bea’ made sense. ‘Thelma’ did not.

“Well, it’s short, isn’t it. Her real name doesn’t translate well…. I can barely get me tongue around it. Thelema… zara… luna… something. The whole thing ends up in a word that’s supposed to mean ‘of the light’. We agreed I could call her ‘Thelma’.”

“Ah.”

“Cream?”

“Yes, please, dearie.”

Bea poured deeply black tea from the thermos into the lid, which had a cup handle, and handed it to Rumplestiltskin. She poured her own tea into a delicate, posy-painted tea-cup, which appeared from the bag.

“How did you come to be tied to… Thelma?” Rumplestiltskin asked.

“Oh, it just happened, love. When we were both girls. Me mum worked here, for the White Queen’s father, and I played all over this place. I found he lake, dipped in a toe and out popped Thelma! We got on famously, as happens with the young.”

“And you understood her, even then?”

“Oh, indeed. I’ve always understood her. I don’t really remember not having Thelma as a part of meself. Even now, with her so far under and thinking her darker turn of thought, I… I _hear_ her, I suppose you could say.”

“What is her ‘darker turn of thought’?”

At that, Bea grinned. “Ah, you’d know betterin’ most. Aye? Some thoughts is private, especially _darker_ thoughts, if you take me meaning.”

Suppressing a smile of a darker turn, Rumplestiltskin said, “Indeed.”

They had their tea in companionly silence, and Rumplestiltskin took in Bea’s many rings, bracelets and necklaces. Pendants, beads… dangling hoops went from her earlobe nearly to her jaw. The sparkle and costume was an odd contrast to her apron and sturdy, lace-up shoes. The magpie collection made his mind drift, somewhat behind his own back, to Killian.

No sooner had the small treachery of thought occurred than the mermaid, with startling quiet, appeared. Her head rose from the otherwise still water, and Rumplestiltskin was physically shaken by her beauty.

Like a snow leopard or the Milky Way, the twinkling arch that flowed over Storybrooke, it hurt to look at her. It hurt to look away. Her beauty was so alien, it bordered on unattractive.

Whatever she spoke, he would never, in years of study, begin to understand. It may have been a celestial language, or one that belonged only to water, to rocks. It was formless sounds and chimes.

Bea spoke in exactly the same instance as the mermaid, as if they were one. When he glanced at her, her grey eyes had become far away and cloudy, as moonstones.

With the subdued music of Thelma’s voice underscoring her words, she asked, “Who is Kitten Jones?”

Well. That was unexpected. Rumplestiltskin nearly spat a spray of tea, his upper body lurching as his diaphragm experienced a brief spasm. He was surprised to hear the mermaid reference the pirate, although perhaps that wasn’t an unusual connection; one of sea-farers. But the misinterpretation of Killian’s name amused him in no small measure.

_Kitten_. He would need to make use of this.

He looked at the mermaid. Her eyes were fire-opals, and about her head was a circlet of freshwater pearls and polished labradorite. It flashed green and blue, with a dark hint of galaxies. Her skin was luminescent; here and there it shimmered with subtle color, as abalone. He had a passing interest in her breasts, and tried to keep the thought at a respectful distance. Her hair, perhaps a dark blonde, was heavy with water. It shimmered with a metallic sort of green as it streamed down her shoulders.

…. Rumplestiltskin blushed to have been thinking, lazily and idly, of Killian. He blushed to understand the mermaid had been aware of it, and he had not. He wondered who the hell he thought he was, to pursue the White Queen.

His mindless spill of thought seemed to transmit directly to the mermaid, and he realized – more in feeling than thought – this creature was hungry for such things. Human life, experience. But for Bea, she was very much alone. Her literal attachment to Bea had made a sort of nun, a true priestess of her human. Bea was alone as Thelma was alone.

Bea knew what Thelma knew, and Rumplestiltskin marveled at the heightened shimmer of Thelma’s eyes… the inward smokiness of Bea’s eyes.

Bea said, “Oh, dear.” With a bit of a chuckle. “Well. He _is_ a devilishly handsome lad. We can see why you wish to possess him.”

Rumplestiltskin’s mind went utterly blank, as if he’d lost time, passed out, and yet was conscious. It was a mere blink, but it felt like many beats of his heart passed, his body gone numb. The Imp within showed awful teeth and said _hold on there just a moment, dearie_.

Surfacing from the strange place of _nowhere_ , Rumplestiltskin thought…. _What_?

 

 


	12. Blood and Cream; Chess Pieces

The thing one forgot about a kitten, Rumplestiltskin considered, was that it was a predator.

It was easy to forget. The kitten looked up with large, rounded eyes, conveying need. It was soft and sweet, even when it did not yet have control of its toes, and the wee claws of its splayed feet made it stick to everything like a burr.

It played, adorable and rather clumsy, and – should it _growl_ , fur bristling – it was heartbreakingly cute in its attempt to menace. Wee tail like a bottle brush.

Never mind it was learning to hunt, to kill.

What in all hells was happening? How was it that he wanted Mirana, he longed to be her consort and yet was pestered by thoughts of Killian Jones?

It was especially bad at night, alone in his too-big bed, the darkness of night in Marmoreal complete. He wanted, then, to light his magic and find his way to Mirana’s chambers. His thoughts shamed him, the things he wanted to do to her… his desire seemed almost a separate thing from the kinship he felt towards her, the warmth. His desire wasn’t gentle, and he became afraid of unleashing it upon her…. scaring the living daylights out of her.

She knew he was a bad man, but she didn’t _know_.

… And then thoughts of Killian crept in. They crept on cat’s paws. They panted at his jugular, where he felt the tongue and tooth of a wolf. Those thoughts shamed him, too.

The thoughts were confusing in so many ways… they shocked him. He was less shocked by Killian’s maleness, which was unmistakable, and more shocked because Killian was _Killian_. The brute who took Milah. The rake with a cutlass and a first-hand acquaintance with murder. He was as cozy with vengeance as was Rumplestiltskin.

They’d met one another with themes of theft and betrayal. They’d quickly moved on to the full-scale drama of homicide and mutilation. The harm they’d done one another was significant.

How had a sort of…. empathy for Killian developed? It seemed as though Killian had the same sort of empathy for him. Rumplestiltskin’s mind had fallen into a looping habit of replaying the moment Killian had released him from iron… and the moment Killian’s naked body was so near his, lips touching as they shared smoke.

Words came to him. They sank into his skin and poisoned his blood, and caused yet more confusion. Did the words come from his long-established thirst for revenge, or were they birthed from that ungentle desire that burned beneath his skin? The desire he was loathe to show Mirana.

_Desecrate. Profane. Defile_.

Oh, it was bad. It was as twisted and deadly as the Hedge, and Rumplestiltskin began to wonder if that spirit was sending out little arrows of thought…. memory, dark magic…. Weaving it around him in its possessive jealousy of Mirana.

Did it send Mirana such thoughts? Did it seduce her, touch her with magic?

It was unnerving, the realization that he wasn’t alone, isolated in Marmoreal as he’d been in the Deadlands, and even more so in Stroybrooke. _Things_ , entities were tuned-in… there were those who had a stealthy access to him.

Whatever was the spirit, or the collection of spirits making up and walking the Hedge; it was aware of him. Bea and Thelma might still be aware, Thelma filtering his dark and dirty thoughts from the hungers of others, tasting the quality of each, nurturing what passed as her soul on demon fruit, sticky and glistening, like candy.

_Savagery_ , he thought, and had a clear vision of Killian’s teeth, his dark jaw clenched as they struggled and fought, bodies defiant to one another.

And now, less defiant. He saw the cigarette clenched in Killian’s teeth, felt the pirate’s thumb, insistent and warm at the corner of his mouth… his own mouth no longer a barrier.

Those white, fucking teeth… predator’s teeth.

Would he relish such savagery with Mirana? For a moment, he saw himself tearing the whispery fabric of her white dress, pearls and crystal beads rolling all over the floor in the aftermath of his violence, her pale skin goosebumping and so very willing to show every blush. Every bruise.

_Shameful_. He got hard, thinking these thoughts. The Hedge knew, and would likely do its utmost to keep Mirana, like Bea to Thelma, its chaste partner. The mermaid knew, and hid in her depths, _feeling_ … for the pleasure of it. Water was a soft motion, a pressure against her mother-of-pearl skin, silky and constant, and she imagined it as touch.

Perhaps it was.

Perhaps Mirana knew. Maybe her spirits told her, and she became aware of the monster within him, even as he tried to hide it. Maybe, even now, she _rode_ the Hedge and witnessed its visions.

Alone in his chambers, Rumplestiltskin moaned aloud. His eyes were closed, one arm flung over his face as he lay on his absurdly large bed, lavishly heaped with bedclothes. The _sight_ he’d once stolen, another moment of plundering, of savagery and defilement, had become dull and fleeting in Storybrooke. Now, fed by Marmoreal’s magic, it was coming to flickering, sparking life. As the heat lightning, it teased and lulled, yet was provocative.

It was as if newly hatched… Rumplestiltskin couldn’t tell if what moved inside him was true _sight_ , or only fevered imagination. But it was vivid… images were vivid, and were felt in his body.

It had been mutual, the savagery that happened with Killian. He’d struck, and Killian had struck back. In a way, the joke was on him… He, whether in his dusty tower room or dusty shop… he was like one of his relics. He was words, living in his head, rarely aware of his own body, save for pain in his leg. He was outside of it, his mind – maybe even the spirit that was the Dark One – living in the pages of books and parchments.

He lived inside of magic, in thought, and had been unprepared for the physical onslaught of Killian Jones. The rash, impulsive, blood-driven pirate…. Who so easily let his heart be snatched right from his chest, taken into his enemy’s hand. Rumplestiltskin had been unprepared to bodily _feel_ ; for the power of it.

It was very different from feeling that was cerebral.

To feel the singing rush of blood, surging to feed muscle as he pitched himself. To feel the sheer, mad catharsis of letting go, anger and hurt rising up like a wave as blows were traded. His body had moved in ways he couldn’t control and he’d been _in_ it; present, feeling. Pain, adrenaline, impulse. Push and pull, strain and untapped strength.

Pleasure was another thing, altogether.

He well remembered the fury on Killian’s face… a heightened flash of blue eyes, blood darkening his face. He remembered the wildness of that fury as it rode the pirate.

He remembered, also, the smoke-mellow, half-mast, night-dark eyes that ghosted over him, eyelashes fluttering closed as the pirate’s open mouth touched to his.

Rumplestiltskin rolled to his belly, one arm hugging a feathery pillow. His other hand loosened his trousers, reached inside and took hold of the hot, hard thing that pulsed therein. He was confused as to what he wanted, what drove him, and he didn’t care if other beings, entities were aware of his maddening desire.

In an uncharacteristic flare of exhibitionism, he _hoped_ Mirana was aware. He thought of her and he thought of Killian; pumping his hips, fucking his fist, and hoped she felt what he felt.

… Blood that boiled, agitating skin, hot, deep in the belly… a ponderous feeling of waiting, heavy; a low, red sun. Nerves that lit and simmered. The suppressed urgency of a hunt.

Violence of passion. He felt a tug of war with Killian, and wondered if he imagined it. There was a feeling of resistance, then pushing forward. An awareness of teeth as bone, as a weapon; a barrier of flesh and blood that – maybe – wanted to give.

Rumplestiltskin moaned into his pillow, reliving the softening, the brushing together of touched lips, the burn of shared breath, filled with smoke. He was overwhelmed. To be present in his body and to feel these things… pleasure, pain, confusion, desire… it was astonishing.

Images, pure pornography flooded his head, so that he saw many things, rapid-fire. He saw Killian’s naked body, shadowed in the bath, backside glistening with water. He felt the strangeness, the alien feeling of _wanting_ it, feeling attraction. He wanted to feel Killian with his hands, with his mouth. He felt a contraction, a grip at his balls to remember Killian’s cock, a ruddy and healthy pendulum swing as he’d walked around the baths.

He imagined Killian offering himself, on hands and knees, hips tilted and legs open; presenting. The animal, bloody-minded madness of seeing so intimate a part of him, the base reality of dark hair between his legs, feathering over his balls and fanning down to his thighs… the madness of seeing it and desiring it. Wanting to touch and penetrate… to watch Killian as he accepted exposure and violation. To _feel_.

He wanted to feel as Thelma wanted to feel. This was the reason, he’d come to understand, that angels left the side of their god. The half-breed children of rebel angels littered places like Wonderland; maybe Thelma was one of them.

All of it… to feel. To take on flesh and with it, to feel.

Breathing hard, pelvis in a grind to the bed, Rumplestiltskin conjured images of Mirana. Even more than with Killian, he had to invent. To imagine. He had an old-world, ridiculous sense of arousal over her bare feet. Should she lift her skirt, reveal a sculped ankle, a high arch… suddenly his imagination ran wild.

He thought of her curled fingers with their dark nails, a much prettier version of the corruption his body had known when he became the Dark One. He thought of the deep gaze of her dark eyes, and the wide fullness of her mouth… soft lips, often painted with a berry-stain of wine-red or belladonna, purple-black.

He thought of her bared shoulders, her pale and graceful neck. He wanted to kiss there, as he’d done when she healed him; to tease with breath. He tried to control thoughts of biting her… but the drive was felt. The hunger for it clenched his jaw.

Her scent… the dewy, girlish and untried scent of the white flowers she evoked, but also a ghosting of death… of turned soil. A sneaky, newly awakened scent of sex, sensual arousal, as existed in the cupped centers of tiger lilies and the tender, bitter leaves of baby greens.

It was strange, his attraction. It was nearly as strange as his attraction to Killian, save for her gender.

The element of death, the dead…. It could not be ignored or dismissed in Mirana, any more than Killian’s maleness could be ignored or dismissed. Her affinity with death rose up and stilled Rumplestiltskin’s hips, so that his hand fondled, his blood pumped, but his mind wandered off a bit. It was abruptly no longer set on the singular, urgent path upon which Killian had set him… with startling ease.

While not exactly a ladies’ man, Rumplestiltskin had been around. Even as a greenish, scaly goblin, terrible teeth and all, he’d managed to interest witchy sorts, like Cora. Maybe Zelena, and the lack of fulfillment on that front might have played a part in fueling her spell over Storybrooke; her attempt to subdue him.

It was his magic, he thought; it was his power that intrigued them and made them open to him, but the results were the same as any coupling. He’d come to know aspects of women, aspects of where mind and body met, physical quirks, triggers; the psychology of sex.

He’d come to know Belle and her honey-rose scent, very warm. Soft, velvety skin, limbs that wound around him and the shocking heat at her core, the grip of her body on his. He’d felt the ticking of her mind, the way she lived in books and stories, perhaps more than he. She had difficulty keeping her mind quiet.

She was so young. It was something he’d rather deliberately overlooked, for he was too old for the counting. How could it matter? It did matter, though.

The others, witches all, shared with Belle a feeling of warmth, heat. Their scents were more exotic, heightened with perfumes and touched with fragrant oils… the smoke of sweet incense was always caught up their hair. Spell herbs and resins lingered on their fingertips, betraying their various addictions.

They, and Belle, once attraction was out in the open, ran hot. It was a different animal from the heat he sensed in Killian, but it was still a hot-blooded, recognizable thing. Passion. An intensity of being, a drawing to one another; it made women wet. It made them curious, forgetful of themselves.

Rumplestiltskin’s hands, his fingers kept a muscle memory of stroking up soft inner thighs, feeling a tickle of pubic hair, and then – the gratification, the _ah-ha_ – of finding hot folds of flesh; wet, ready. Thumb to clit, middle finger thrust inside… he knew these workings. A possessing demon, he knew how to work his way inside.

And yet, he could not bring these things to mind with Mirana. It was her world of dead things, explored with Victor, whom he suddenly wished to flog with his cane. Her scent that was mounds of virginal baby’s breath, laying upon a fresh grave. The frothing of wild carrot in the Hedge, making a fortress of white, a secret hide-away.

She seemed robbed of heat, and Rumplestiltskin wondered if she gave all of her passion to the Hedge, to her odd magic. Maybe it was leeched away as she stood on balconies; once more, with Victor; both staring, owlish and rapt, at gathering storms.

His body had cooled, mired down in wondering over Mirana’s sexuality… the possibility of its absence. It was then a vision, an image sprang into his mind, behind his closed eyes. It felt as if it wasn’t conjured by himself…. It simply arrived, a landmine he’d tripped over in his wanderings. It was full-blown, lighting the inside of his dark skull, beating against his eyelids from the inside.

It was a shock; his blood froze, a painful feeling throughout his body, and then it surged in such a strong wave, the feeling was also nearly one of pain. Heat in his limbs and at his core was explosive, jarring.

In the vision, Killian worked Mirana. He _worked_ her. They were both dressed, white and black chess pieces, but Mirana’s spillage of skirt was piled up in her lap. Her legs were apart. She leaned back, hands gripped to her seat, one pale leg laying over Killian’s black-clad thigh.

With the freezing of Rumplestiltskin’s blood came a confused anger. _Why?_ Why would he bring such a thing to mind? He could barely tolerate Mirana’s friendship with Victor… why create this image with _Killian_ , and within it see Mirana in a way he’d been unable to imagine?

It was a sucker punch. His body stilled completely, momentarily forgotten, all of his being drawn into his head. Then, a rip-current, it roared back into his torso, his limbs. His softening cock became painfully hard, filled with hot blood. His hips rocked, seeking release, seeking out more pleasure-pain. Behind closed eyes, he stared. He was riveted.

Killian’s mouth was at Mirana’s ear, his eyes slitted and cheeks colored. He _coached_ her. His hand, a familiar object to Rumplestiltskin, obscured the secret of her sex, a thing Rumplestiltskin longed to see… yet it tantalized. A protrusion of knuckles, the flexing of tendon and bone as Killian’s hand worked, teasing and pleasuring, settled between the creamy-white spread of Mirana’s legs.

The shape of his wrist, bone parting dark feathers of hair… Mirana’s bare feet, her leg that lay over Killian’s thigh and dangled a child-like foot…

Captured and stuck in the image, greedily taking in Mirana’s swoon, the obvious flush that colored her pale skin, the heave of her restrained breasts; Rumplestiltskin came very quickly. His teeth clenched, forehead intense; his lips parted in a gasp and a guttural growl. He lay for some moments, panting, cock pulsing… his insides contracted with the regularity of a heartbeat, an angst he felt in his pelvic floor. A heaviness began to fill his limbs.

As if drugged, touched with Mirana’a necrotic poisons, he curled to his side. He was almost instantly in deep sleep.

He had a sense of Thelma, opal eyes a dim glow in darkness, going deeper and deeper down, going into cold places where things that moved with her were unseen. They were _felt._

His mind followed her down.

 

 

 

 

 


	13. The Wrong Man

Leroy looked gloomy and despondent. Grumpy. He was slouched so low in his chair, he seemed in danger of sliding to the ground, where he would puddle. He glowered into a middle distance at nothing anyone could discern.

Approaching, Jefferson said, “What’s the story, Morning Glory? Can I be of any assistance?”

“Are you a tankard of ale?”

“… Well….”

Leroy made a grumbled sound of dismissal, and Jefferson shrugged.

“I know _that’s_ right, brother.” Victor said to Leroy. “It’s getting a little stifled up in here, all this courtly crap, little glasses of sherry, or some such. Rabbits in haute couture. It’s about time for a group of regular guys to go out, tear it up, drink some brews. Blow off some steam.”

Jefferson looked pointedly at Victor. “Yes, but what will _we_ do?”

That, at least, got a muffled, semi-laugh from Leroy. A somber snort. Then he sat up and said, “Hey, why not? We may as well go poking around Wonderland. We don’t seem to be leaving anytime soon.”

“I’m not _poking_ around Wonderland.” Jefferson declared. “It’s fucked-up, outside of Marmoreal.”

Looking up with his baleful, hound’s eyes, Leroy said, “This isn’t fucked-up?”

“Not the same, my friend. This is peculiar. Wonderland is a mess of dangerous sorts, talking nonsense… randomly decapitating, which isn’t necessarily as incapacitating as one might have assumed. It will make you _mad_.”

His eyes bugged out a bit, round and fevered and mad. It intensified his overall appearance of cherub. Leroy saw a thin scar around the Hatter’s neck, usually kept covered. The scar seemed to suddenly glow, white light turned red, and Victor patted Jefferson on the back.

“There, there.” He said. “I’m sure we can procure something hearty and indelicate to drink, right here in Marmoreal. I’ll ask Mirana about it. Then, maybe… a game of flamingo croquet? We can discuss the politics of dancing. The politics of, ooh, feeling good.”

Leroy fell back into his slump. “Oh, joy.” He grumbled.

 

 

 

 

_Boys_. Or…. Men. Well, Rumplestiltskin seemed a man, anyway.

Mirana was uncertain as to how to think of the travelers, just as she was uncertain as to how to think of herself.

Hands on hips, in wide-legged stances and with ferocious eyes, her witches said, _You are a WOMAN!_

They were tiny warrioresses. They each stomped a foot, synchronized, united in a soldierly sort of womanhood. A cub-like witch, rounded and sweet-faced, barked, _Stand up straight! Shoulders back! Tits out!_ She jutted out a shelf-like bosom and slammed a fist to her heart.

Who _were_ these little people, this tiny tribe? An inward gaze, Mirana gave them a look that was nearly as baleful as Leroy.

The tribe lived in a series of caves, a bee hive arrangement, in the side of a mountain. It was terraced; the cave openings were stacked upon one another; honey-cells. Mirana was their Queen; Queen of tiny witches as she was Queen of Marmoreal, but she never felt like it. She felt like the child of all of these miniature women, and as if she constantly failed them.

She wasn’t a _woman_. The word sounded… almost offensive, which she accepted as absurd. She was a girl. She couldn’t graduate from girlhood.

_Unless_ , said the biddy, the Granny-Witch, _it’s to go directly to hagdom_.

_No waiting!_ added another, with cheer. Hands in the air like she didn’t care. Surely _that_ one was a woman, in her red dress and showing off a wealth of cleavage. How was she so comfortable about it, Mirana wondered?

She’d woken feeling as though she’d done directly from girlhood to hagdom. She’d wrapped a shawl around her shoulders against the new chill in the morning air, and hunkered along, shoulders rounded as she worked on a dowager’s hump. Her hand, a claw, clutched the shawl together at her chest.

Would Rumplestiltskin desire this apparition? This immature victim of early-onset decrepitude? She’d been in the company of wee witches for far too long… if she opened her mouth, tiny frogs would hop out as she cackled.

_You’re not old_ , Red Dress said, jutting out a hip _. And you’re not a baby. You’re ripe. You’re juicy. The Wizard wants to suck on you._

She grinned a saucy grin from red lips, but Mirana could only see bones. She saw Rumplestiltskin, brow intense, sucking the marrow from a bone. It disturbed.

(It was kind of erotic.)

Would he leave her brittle? Would that be better than to be left alone, altogether?

_Wrong!_ Declared several wee witches. _Wrong man!_

What a motley assortment, Mirana thought. So different from her uniform, White Ladies. This one wore all black, and a conical hat. Another wore a rainbow array of colors, rags and ribbons, and a broad-brimmed straw hat that was festooned with flowers. She held the hat to her head and tipped her head back, squinting up at some odd event in the sky of her world.

Still another wore an animal costume of some sort, like furry footie-pajamas and a hood with ears. She stalked about, and sometimes crawled.

Many wore their hair long and wild. A few kept their hair cropped short, severe, following the shapes of their skulls. It made for a strange, uncomfortable beauty.

Like her White Ladies, they weren’t all that warm towards Rumplestiltskin.

_Wrong_. It echoed, bouncing around in Mirana’s head. Could others ever hear her tribe?

_Not that geezer_ , said a witch. _Dry as a bundle of sticks, that one. A bag of bones. Cold ashes. A yawning grave._

Brushing her hair, noticing the ghoulishness of her morning reflection in the mirror, Mirana murmured, “Goodness.” Of course, no one could really understand the way in which she _liked_ all of those things.

Her body presented a memory to her, bringing it to light by feeling; Rumplestiltskin, bared to the waist, arms around her. His mouth to her neck.

A shiver briefly took her, both pleasant and unpleasant, and she felt a solid reality of skin, bones, muscle and force. The tickling of hair and the warmth of breath. The warmth of bodies, very different from the substance she took in when holding her cats, petting Bethany.

It had not been cold or brittle-dry. It had not seemed akin to death. It had scared her silly, and then she was angry at herself. Tired of herself. She wished to feel it again.

Red Dress said, _The pirate, love. He’s the one_. She suddenly sported an eye-patch and a hook-hand. Striking a cavalier, wenchly pose, she added, _Aye. He’s the one… Not old, not a baby. He’s ripe. Ready_.

Now all of her witches were swaggering around, skirts hitched up to show buccaneer boots, bodices laced up and cinching their middles. They waved flags showing the skull and cross-bones and took hearty swigs from secreted flasks.

_Don’t chew on a mouthful of twigs_ , the biddy said. She who chewed her cud. _Take a hearty swallow of devil’s fruit!_

Mirana began to dress, largely ignoring her tribe. She’d had to learn how to ignore them… in younger days, she would sometimes forget and converse with them; her imaginary friends, her parents said. It couldn’t happen when one wore a crown.

Devil’s fruit, as it happened, grew in healthy, snaking vines all throughout the Hedge as well as in her laboratory, and was a deadly poison. Useful in magic, but one wouldn’t want to take a _hearty swallow_. On purpose.

The witches set up a soft chanting: _Pi-rate, pi-rate, pi-rate_.

In the privacy of her bedroom, Mirana paused to fully acknowledge them. Hands to her hips, semi-dressed in a filmy shift and the hatefulness of her spine-straightening corset, she said, “It’s been noticed that the pirate follows Rumplestiltskin around, like a puppy. Perhaps the Wizard is more to his liking than some pale mockery of womanhood.”

The biddy spat her vile spit, brownish in color from whatever leaf she kept tucked under her lip. Eye-patches and buccaneer boots vanished, leaving the odd assortment in their usual attire.

_Oh, piffle_ , said Red Dress.

In a dreamy, lilting voice, Rags and Ribbons said, _Perhaps the Wizard is an idea he fancies. But the pirate has a lot of ideas. A lot of fancies._

“I don’t believe a White Queen is one of them. Besides, _I_ fancy Rumplestiltskin, no matter what all you little heathens think. And none of it matters a whit. I am destined to be alone.”

It caused an uproar. Mirana was a little affronted to find herself _booed_.

_Booooo!_ They cried. They threw things, plates and cutlery. There were rude finger gestures.

In an aside, less virulent than the others, Rags and Ribbons looked at Mirana with her large, green eyes. In her dreamy voice, she said, _You’re not destined, sweetpea. No one is destined. Paths swerve and change all the time… any number of outcomes are possible, and those very outcomes can sprout more paths. It’s only your own mind, your own heart that fences you in_.

The biddy made a dismissive gesture, disgusted with Mirana. She said, _Pft. This girl. She keeps her heart sealed up and wrapped in vines of thorn. It blinds her_.

Mirana felt her cheeks warm, and became self-aware, self-conscious. What would Rumplestiltskin think of her, if he knew? If he knew that her imaginary friends – if that’s what the tribe was – could agitate her so… could make her blush.

She struggled into her dress. It had endless buttons that went all along her spine. Its bodice and skirt were heavy, almost stiff, full of embroidery and beads, but its sleeves were filmy wisps that got caught up in the rougher fabric…. And in her hair… she was entangled in the arms of her dress and hot about the collar.

It was the sort of dress she was meant to have help with, but she couldn’t bear the butterfly flutter of her Ladies when she’d awoken, a hag. Huffing, she wore the dress backwards to do-up most of the buttons, then squirmed it around right-ways to struggle her arms into the sleeves. The squirm sent her shift into a spiraling cinch to her body, and she had to lift the skirt up in bunches to un-cinch and free her legs.

This costume was ridiculous. I know, she thought. Let’s top it with a crown.

She muttered, “Seals and thorns around the heart. It’s all just words. Metaphors. I’ve no idea how to actually change any of it.” An afterthought, she added, “I can’t bloody well reach into my chest and unseal my heart.”

Rags and Ribbons looked startled. Then enlightened. As the others went about sweeping and lighting fires, bringing cauldrons to a boil, Rags cupped her hand to her mouth. Whispering, she said, _Rumplestiltskin can_.

 

 

 


	14. Boys Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a series of very entertaining comments, Brokensoul, I think this chapter must have been meant for you. :)

“Dark One.” Grumbled Leroy.

“Dwarf.” Snarled Rumplestiltskin.

“Hatter.” Nodded Killian.

“Pirate.” Said Jefferson.

“Doctor.” Said Killian.

“Black Bart.” Smiled Victor.

 

The men drank. Actual beer, Leroy noted, gleeful. Killian drank rum from his flask. Rumplestiltskin was beginning to consider the flask as a possible, magical object, always full, as he drank a fiery, malted Marmoreal spirit, akin to whisky. It was a full flavor, not at all sweet. Hot, and yet deceptively mild.

The others drank the frothy, somewhat honey-scented brew that Victor had rounded up. They wore foam moustaches. Jefferson held his enormous tankard with two hands.

In an unfortunate moment of impaired judgement, Killian pissed off the balcony and onto someone’s far more gentrified repast. At the startled sounds of dismay from below, he peered blearily into shadows.

“Oi! _Very_ sorry, mate!” He called.

Rumplestiltskin sniggered, deep in his cups, his too-long nose half-buried in his glass. Fire-liquid was snorted up his nostrils, which was inflammatory. He struggled wildly with himself for a moment, flailing about in a pinwheel motion as he fought for both vision and breath.

It caused Leroy to fall-out, collapsed into giggles. Jefferson followed suit, and then giggled harder when Killian turned from the balcony, puzzled in expression and still holding his soft and harmless cock.

Victor thumped Rumplestiltskin between the shoulder blades, his weird grin broad and evocative of a Jack-O-Lantern. His eyes were lit.

 There had been the semi-abuse of flamingos, people falling down drunk, someone was christened with urine, there was public nudity, and now tears streamed from the Dark One’s eyes as watery snot streamed from his nose, even as he still snorted with a laughter that, certainly, was evil.

“Good times, gents.” Victor smiled.

 

 

 

Everyone stumbled and staggered off to bed, save for Killian and Rumplestiltskin. They sat, all civility cast aside, on the stone floor of the balcony. They sat back-to-back, seemingly boneless but for their spines; they held one another up. Rumplestiltskin’s head lolled back on Killian’s shoulder, and he gazed at a brilliant net of stars, twinkling overhead.

“S’beautiful.” He slurred. His hand rose weakly with every intention of pointing heavenward, but then fell back down with a flop. His fingers curled in like a deceased spider.

“Mirana?” Killian asked, except he said _Manana_.

“No. Yes. Banana’s beautiful. Stars… look up.”

Killian’s head lolled back to be supported by Rumplestiltskin’s shoulder, and he softly crooned.

“Aye.” He concurred.

All was hushed, cushioned by night. Insulated by drink. Each man somewhat forgot the other was holding him up, a shoulder for a pillow each, and felt both strange and comfortable. The stone floor sent a ghostly cold into their bodies, but there was heat where they leaned upon each other. They were numb with alcohol; time was wobbly. They were dazzled with sky.

Mirana approached from the castle’s shadowed interior, and for a moment – or several moments, it was hard to tell – Rumplestiltskin struggled with time and place.

For one, Mirana was in her nightclothes. It threw him off… a simple gown that fell to mid-shin; there were her legs and bare feet. A blanket or shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, her pale hair loose and rippling all about.

Killian didn’t see her, his back to her. Rumplestiltskin tried to send some signal, a little nudge, but his body wouldn’t move. He stared at Mirana, as rapt as a child staring at the window display of a toy store.

Where had she come from? What part of the castle were they in? Or… was he in the Dark Castle? Was he _green_? What would she make of him, that way? He could say he was the spirit of the Hedge. Yes. Good plan.

“Oh, goodness.” Said Mirana. She tilted her head, looking down at him.

Rumplestiltskin felt sheepish, but also utterly distracted by the simplicity of her clothing, the apparent accessibility. Had he his cane, he would use it to lift the hem of her gown and take a peek at what was going on under there.

Killian’s shoulder shifted, moving Rumplestiltskin about. He asked, “Was that you, mate?”

Rumplestiltskin smiled, thinking of Mirana’s girlish voice. “No. It’s Miri.” His eyes met hers as he smiled.

Her head tilted the other way. She was a cat. A kitten, like Killian. What a disturbing thought.

She said. “ _Miri_. My father called me Miri. My mother called me Ana.”

Killian swiveled about on one hip, and Rumplestiltskin lost his support. Suddenly he was laying on his back. Propping up on his forearms, he said, “They split you in half.”

“Yes.” Mirana agreed. She smiled, then looked to Killian. He touched his hook to his forehead in a bizarre salute, and Mirana raised her brows. “Captain.” She said.

“I’m sorry, dearie.” Rumplestiltskin shook his head.

Position fully shifted, he lay his head on Killian’s thigh. His hair fell in his face, but it was a puzzling thing. Waving his hand before his obscured eyes, he said, “Why, I’ve gone blind!”

“He’s trying to apologize because we’re stinking drunk.” Killian offered. He smoothed Rumplestiltskin’s hair back from his forehead, and Rumplestiltskin made a happy, little sound of, “Ah!”

“ _There_ you are, dearie.” He said to Mirana.

Mirana crouched down, which was nearly too much for him. Neurological crisis approached. His eyes struggled wildly to keep meeting hers…. They felt a weighted, magnetic pull to scan about her legs and hips, in case her gown behaved in ways unseemly.

She said, “I think I know how to defeat your witch, Rumple.”

Which witch? What world? Whose castle _was_ this? Gamely, he said, “Oh, yes?”

“Yes. With mushrooms.”

Rumplestiltskin gazed, thinking… well, nothing. He was blank. She was so lovely. She might be naked under her nightclothes. She proposed warfare with fungus.

He burst into a fit of drunken giggles, rolling to his side. He curled in on himself, face pressed to the slight give of Killian’s leather-clad thigh.

“Please forgive him, love.” Killian said, which seemed to pull more laughter from Rumplestiltskin’s belly. “He’s just… asinine at the moment.”

Killian’s nearness felt good to Rumplestiltskin in a heightened, dreamy way. He was aware of Mirana, and wanted the feeling towards Killian both to stop and to continue.

“Well… “ Mirana sounded uncertain. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“Aye, dearie.” Rumplestiltskin appeared to address Killian’s thigh.

“Sorry, love.” He heard Killian say again, and he felt Mirana depart.

“You’re a mess, mate.”

“Aye.” He giggled again. “Mushrooms? Mirana and vegetation…”

“I think you missed a chance to go off to bed with her.”

That was sobering. Rumplestiltskin pushed himself more or less upright, and his hair, now in complete disarray, fell in his face once more. Killian pushed it back once more.

“Aye? Good gods. Really? I should go after her.”

Shaking his head, Killian said, “I don’t think so. You’ll just heave-up on her. Piss in a flower pot. Something. I had no idea you’d get so blindingly drunk.”

The balcony began a slow spin, lending credence to the idea of heaving-up on Mirana. Women almost never welcomed such things. Rumplestiltskin let out a loud, eloquent belch, then groaned. The belch was frightfully juicy.

“Gods. Me neither.” He muttered.

 

 

 

 

Surely there was magic for this. Rumplestiltskin _knew_ there was magic, if only he could reach past the relentless pounding in his head, the pervasive nausea that clenched his belly and teased at the back of his throat. Obviously, Marmoreal spirits had a wild ingredient or two… perhaps this was a spiteful note from the Hedge.

He needed to take a piss. It was becoming imperative, even desperate, yet he was extremely reluctant to open his eyes. He had a flashback to the casual stance of Killian’s black-clad backside as he whizzed into the night. He relived the horrified voices that drifted up, and his belly cramped as a laugh was born there.

“Fucking hell.” He moaned. If he couldn’t access magic, someone should just kill him.

“Alright, mate?”

….? There were so many questions. Where was he? _When_ was he? Mushrooms? Why was Killian Jones the witness to this rather humiliating ball he’d folded himself into? Which witch?

“No.” he croaked. He knew that much.

Then a cold cloth was pressed to the back of his neck, and after a moment of goose-bumping surprise, Rumplestiltskin began to breathe with more ease. His belly didn’t clench so tightly.

“There you go.” Killian said. “When you can, sit up enough to take a sip of water.”

Killian Jones was his nursemaid? Oh, no. It wouldn’t do. Eyes still closed, Rumplestiltskin became aware he was minus shoes and pants. Pants? The indignity. The pirate had undressed him? He was in sock feet, and he felt the loose billow of boxers under his voluminous shirt.

“Fucking hell.” He repeated.

“Don’t be such a baby.” Killian said.

“I’ll… rip your head off. _Vomit_ down your neck.” The image rose his gorge a bit. Flowers, he thought. Sunshine. Stillness. Mirana.

“That’s the spirit, mate.”

With great effort, Rumplestiltskin got himself to sit upright. Killian propped him up with pillows and handed him a cup of water. Gingerly, her sipped. Bits of the evening before emerged, and he tried to sort them into some kind of order.

His brow furrowed.

“Were there… wee witches, running amok?”

“What?”

No. That couldn’t be right. Even in Wonderland. But it was so persistent… an image of Mirana in her nightgown, and… around her? Part of her? Very small witches, gone berserk. Zipping around on tiny brooms.

Rumplestiltskin glanced at Killian. “You didn’t see wee witches about? When Mirana showed up?”

“Oh, you mean _Miri_.” Killian made a dopey, love-sick puppy face. “No, mate. How wee?”

Frowning, Rumplestiltskin said, “About the size of me hand. Maybe smaller.”

One of Killian’s brows went wildly awry, showing both disbelief and concern. Rumplestiltskin was disgusted to find that, post-bender, the pirate was still devilishly handsome. A night’s worth of dark beard growth made him that much more a rake.

“No?” Rumplestiltskin asked.

Killian confirmed, “No.”

“Then… perhaps, were there some of those talking mice or ground squirrels around? But… with brooms?”

Standing, Killian said, “…. _Nooo_ …. Bloody hell, mate. I may have to try some of that fire-water.”

“Don’t. I’m trying to die. Or, rather; Do. You must”

Killian’s face became flatly sardonic, and he wandered away from the bed. Rumplestiltskin watched him, his pain and distress hanging back a bit as he sipped water. His bladder situation was pressing. He thought of Killian telling him he’d go pissing in potted plants. He looked about for one, but came up empty.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He made himself stand. Then walk. It was harrowing. It seemed possible he might projectile vomit while pissing down his leg.

At his long groan, Killian reappeared. Rumplestiltskin thought, _Hello, dearie_. It was difficult to think otherwise… Killian was only in his trousers, barefoot and bare chested. How odd, that it was becoming a regular, familiar thing. This intimacy. Half or fully naked pirate… laying all over each other while engaged in serious drink. Killian _rescuing_ him. _Killian_ rescuing him.

Killian came to stand behind him, holding him steady at the upper arms. He walked Rumplestiltskin to the privy, to a suspiciously large chamber pot, and then they both simply stood there. Oh, for a toilet. Even so, Rumplestiltskin gazed down at the wide yawn of the bowl with a feeling akin to love.

“Well?” Killian prompted. “Are you waiting for me to fish it out and hold it for you, mate?”

“I think not.”

“Get on with it, then.”

“I’m trying to decide whether to piss or vomit.”

“I vote piss. Aim for the bowl.”

“Aye.” Rumplestiltskin agreed. He felt around in his boxers… it was going to be embarrassing if he couldn’t locate his willie. It had to be in there, somewhere… drunk and passed out, crumpled to the pillows of his balls.

“Did it get away?” Killian sounded amused.

“Er… _ah-ha_.”

It was found, soft and lazy and deeply inebriated. Rumplestiltskin took aim, then let loose with a stream that caused such relief, he moaned in an orgasmic sort of pleasure. He leaned heavily against Killian, legs weak, distantly aware of exactly how peculiar that was… And in his mind’s eye he saw wee witches. He _heard_ them.

 _Ewww. Look at the floppy little worm_. Said one, clearly disillusioned.

Another said _, You can’t really judge when a fellow’s hung over and making water_.

 _That is NOT water_ , declared a third.

What the hell? Shaking off, Rumplestiltskin tucked his demoralized cock away, but couldn’t stop the heaviness of his lean. Killian held him up.

“Surely you saw them, just now. They were talking about me.”

“I think you’re getting Wizard’s dementia.” Killian said with finality.

Rumplestiltskin allowed himself to be manhandled as Killian struggled with his dead-weight. He considered it; Wizard dementia. No one else mentioned dragons that were planes or mushrooms that were fire-hydrants. Maybe the pirate was right.

“Was I this bad when Mirana showed up?”

“Well, you didn’t bring up wee witches. Who, apparently, talk about you.”

Rumplestiltskin found himself deposited back onto Killian’s bed. Overall, he was chagrined. Every angle with which he approached his presentation to Mirana or his current relationship with Kilian made him cringe.

“I’ve got to get some magic working.“ He muttered. “This is intolerable.”

“Go to it, mate. Before the vomiting part begins.”

Wise words. Closing his eyes, Rumplestiltskin went to it. Wizard dementia be damned. Except… the wee witches helped him. Well, one wee witch. She wore footie pajamas with a hood like a wolf, and sat on his right shoulder. She whispered to him the names that emanated from the Hedge, and it strengthened him. It strengthened his magic, so that it grew.

 _King of the Wood_ , she said. _Jack in the Green, and his girl, Black Sal. Summer King, Green Knight_ …

Startled and oddly humbled, Killian stopped moving about the room, a restless wolf. He sat at the foot of the bed and stared as magic birthed itself. It moved, a dark and sparkling smoke, all around Rumplestiltskin. The scents of storms and honey filled the room.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I have an alter ego who is completely mad for Victor Frankenstein. Mad, I say.


	15. The Voyeur

Mirana held a large, illustrated book on her lap. She read the words, “A cat with its tail held high is curious, confident and ready for action.”

Peering over the book, she beheld Killian Jones in mid-strut. A line of cats followed, like ducklings; tails up. Hm, she thought. She chewed her bottom lip a moment, before becoming aware of her unqueenliness.

And to whom did he strut? To one of her ladies? To Leroy, for a drink and a smoke? No. He took himself to the side of Rumplestiltskin, who looked rather worse for wear.

He was the Wizard’s shadow.

She needed to speak to Rumplestiltskin…. She felt urgent about it, but she also felt the warp and weft of Wonderland. Time lost meaning.

All of the usual laws of physics fell apart in Wonderland, thus Jefferson had been relieved of his head, yet still carried on. He remained scarred and a little mad; a thing he tried to conceal, as Mirana tried to conceal her own shortcomings.

Bloody Wonderland… outside of Mirana’s kingdom, it was teeming with the utterly wild and nonsensical. Dangers lurked everywhere. Flowers were spies, perhaps for a Red Queen of Hearts, (whose subjects called her ‘Big Hair Don’t Care’), perhaps for her Red Knight, a dragon rider and a thoughtless demon, under her control.

One of Mirana’s little witches popped up from behind her book, making her jump, breath hissing over teeth as she attempted to disguise her reaction.

_Confident and ready for action!_ The witch jerked her head towards Killian. _A Black Knight_!

Mirana gasped, and the tribe said, _oooooooooooohhhhh_.

Closing her book, she stood. Her court stood as well, but she motioned them to be still. She murmured that she was taking a walk, visiting the Hedge. Well, where else? She glanced at Rumplestiltskin as she left, inadvertently catching his eyes. It made her blush, which was a source of irritation. Why should she blush simply to _look_ at him?

_Because you want to be nasty with him_ , said the biddy. She nodded knowingly, and Mirana hurried on her way.

A Black Knight. She’d been trying to recruit a White Knight, as befit Marmoreal’s tradition. Thinking of the source of her magic, the darkness she tried to minimize to her people, she wondered if she wasn’t going about it all wrong.

Could she discuss it with Killian? She wasn’t sure. He _did_ things… things with his eyebrows, his eyes. Things with his mouth, and his fingers to his chin. Mirana felt as though he spoke to her on a secret wavelength, and he told her; _I’m a wolf. I’ll tear you apart and eat you up, so much fluffy meringue_.

And then, if she believed him, he laughed at her.

These people, she thought. She allowed herself a flounce, hands a-flutter, arms up. And then, suddenly, she couldn’t stand it. She was going to lose it. _It?_ Her mind? Her temper? Perhaps only her composure. She was going to rip her costume to shreds and stomp all over it, conversing loudly with a tribe of invisible witches the entire time.

She’d been lonely for so long… she realized she didn’t know how to be otherwise. Instead of easing her loneliness, the travelers were intruding upon it. Mirana was anxious in ways she was unable to name.

Loneliness was something she was very used to, even comfortable with. She was used to its ache… It was a hollow thing inside her, and she imagined her insides were the empty structures she’d collected in childhood. Those things left behind when life departed. Her heart was an empty, multi-chambered wasp nest. Her belly was a hollowed-out snail shell. Her brain was an abandoned bird’s nest, where once a mother brooded. Empty things, that yet echoed spirit.

Her insides made the sound of a far-off ocean. These were reasons she couldn’t be called a woman; she was pretend. Hollow.

In her small snit, unnoticed by all but witches, she felt despair. Under her breath, hidden from her subjects, she swore, “Shit.” The swear word made her feel a little better. Then she lifted her skirt and took off at a run.

Wonderland, bloody Wonderland. That’s what it was. It was getting under her skin, tip-toeing along her fraying, sparking nerves, and it _was_ bloody. Disembodied heads laying amongst the roses. Cards wielding weapons, willy-nilly. Talking eggs, broken all to pieces, bleeding out yolk. Armies couldn’t repair them.

She came up short before a grouping of pussy willows that stood just beyond a line of young oaks. The oaks were all but swallowed up by wisteria.

She’d come upon Victor and Jefferson, and now didn’t know what to do with herself. She hid and spied, ashamed of her actions. The snail shell of her belly said, _shhhhhhh_.

Bethany flew to her, white wings a fleeting sparkle in sunlight. Mirana looked at her phantom form, hunkered to the ground, and pressed her finger to her lips. _Shhhhhh_.

Behind the thick, woody vine that embraced the trees, she hid. Victor and Jefferson were somewhat hidden as well, under the shade of pussy willows – long past furry catkins – away from the openness of the courtyard, and yet visible to her. They pressed close together, embraced, hands moving over one another. They kissed.

The kissing was… improper. They didn’t do it correctly, as Mirana had learned of courtly kissing. They were meant to press their lips briefly together, as cats touching noses, in mutual recognition and affectionate respect. This was a kiss.

They were all out of bounds. Messy, fumbling; it wasn’t good form. They were trying to devour one another, to taste and feed upon one another. Their mouths were open, connected… sometimes their tongues were shockingly visible, and touched together. They licked against each other. Their voices made soft moans, bodies moving together, close, and in a slow grind.

Despite the obvious deviation from correct form, Mirana was riveted. Her hands fidgeted, one holding tight to her skirt; the fingertips of her other hand touched to her mouth. Her lips were parted, and felt shockingly alive to the messy kissing of her friends.

She thought she might have caught their feelings…. It happened, sometimes. It was another weakness, another failing; she expended a great deal of energy trying to buffer herself from the thoughts and feelings of those around her.

The shock made her vulnerable. _You must grow a shell_ , her mother used to say. Mirana saw herself as a soft, mollusk-like thing. Everything became a part of her; air, light sea. If she didn’t grow a shell, she would simply disappear… melt into all that invaded her body. Something had to separate her from everything else; some boundary.

She wasn’t separate. She was invaded. Her vision momentarily darkened as a rush of blood, a heady swoon moved through her body with muscled power. As it moved in her, her blurred vision took in Jefferson. His body was in something of a slump, and Victor, bent at the knees, was hoisting him back up.

Jefferson’s head leaned back, the back of his head cupped in Victor’s hand, his eyes closed. His mouth was open, overcome. So then, it was Jefferson’s feelings she felt. She blushed painfully, her wasp-nest heart hurtful in her chest, squeezing like a fist. She blushed because her link to Jefferson meant that Victor, so like a brother to her, caused her feelings.

It was so strange to see him in this manner, to feel the effect he had on Jefferson. He seduced Jefferson, overwhelming him. It was not a manner in which she understood Victor, and she felt almost tearful within a mixture of desire and confusion… Jefferson’s feelings blended to her own.

Victor kissed along Jefferson’s neck, his jaw, and Mirana felt shivers, goosebumps in those places. Her face was hot, her eyes burned, and the corset that was supposed to support her was not allowing for her new urgency to breathe more deeply. It pinched her nipples in bawdy suggestion. It squeezed her ribcage, constricting her lungs. As always, it restrained her. It tried to remind her of herself, but she’d lost her shell. She was full of others.

Painful, too, was the place between her legs. She didn’t have a name for it, really. Her nurse, when she was small, called it _Tee-tee_ , but really was referring to urination. How could peeing and a physical structure be the same thing?

Her witches taunted her with words like _pussy_ and _cunt_ , but the words made Mirana feel… wrong, somehow. When men spoke those words, Mirana felt a sort of ugliness. A mild threat. She felt a rejection, or simply a lack of recognition of herself.

Well, she needed a word for it. That place throbbed, and her aching awareness of it was acute, as when she bled. Bleeding put her _very_ out of sorts… it was always a strange time for her, sometimes dreamy, but always uncomfortable. It tended to damage her shell, as Jefferson’s feelings had damaged it; the shell she wove from energy and will, alone.

She ached during that time. It was a hurtful thing, low in her belly and sometimes low in her back. The most uncomfortable aspect was the awareness it caused, and she felt the same awareness, watching Victor and Jefferson. She was aware of her breasts, feeling a swell and a yearning. She was miserably aware of wetness between her legs, and wondered – in a bit of a panic – if she truly did bleed. The feeling of Jefferson’s swoon moved into a pulse, low and heavy in her abdomen. It was felt in a direct, shocking way between her legs. She thought she might faint for lack of breath. She recognized need, and had no idea of the specifics of what was needed.

“Mirana.”

It was as though her vision went white, a sunburst. She gasped and whirled around, causing a little croak of complaint from Bethany, who settled into a muttered commentary.

“Rumplestiltskin!”

Oh… _no_. What on earth could she say for herself? She had no explanation for why she lurked, peeping from wisteria, watching a deep intimacy occur between Victor and Jefferson. Worse, she was still awash in _feeling_. She could do nothing to hide it… her shell was compromised. Well, it was gone. It was as if she did, indeed, bleed, and a stain of bright red bloomed on her petal-white dress, betraying her and shaming her.

She was imperfect, weak. She was as bloody and broken as the bloody Red Queen… the Red Knight was the demon of her confused heart; her confused sex.

“Dearie…” Rumplestiltskin seemed lost for words. Certainly, Mirana was lost. _Lost_. He stared past her, past the faded and withered flowers that were yet alive with bees. She watched his face as he watched the lovers, and she was amazed to see him blush… as she blushed.

Finally, he looked back to her. His hand rose to cup her face, and his thumb caressed over her cheek. Mirana was sure he must be burned. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

“You’re quite overcome, dearie.”

She nodded. She probably couldn’t stand up much longer. The feeling of Rumplestiltskin so near, the feel and scent of his hand at her jaw, the skin rough and warm… it was adding to her confusion.  Would he kiss her, she wondered? Would he kiss her, as Victor kissed Jefferson? Without her shell in place, would he devour her?

Finally, she understood. The girls she’d always thought a bit stupid; those who wept, and declared they would _die_ if they couldn’t have a particular boy… Rubbish, she’d thought. You won’t die. The women with whom she’d grown impatient… now she understood.

She’d found them childish, ridiculous; but it was she who was immature. She who’d been so slow to recognize what they’d simply known, early and instinctively.

Need. Need of another. Mirana felt a prey-like panic, her eyes hot, her lips and cheeks hot. Her throat was thick and strangled with her lack of voice, her inability to express herself.

 If she could not possess, within herself the feeling that happened between Jefferson and Victor, the feeling of something large and impending between herself and Rumplestiltskin… she would _die_.

 

 

 


	16. Sneaky and Despicable

Staring up into Rumplestiltskin’s eyes, her eyes like a panicked doe’s, Mirana began to fall. She never came close to the ground. Rumplestiltskin bent to catch her… with a rush of pleasure to do so manly, so gallant a thing, he scooped her up.

She, in her white and blushing with embarrassed excitement, was very like a bride. Mirana made a surprised little sound to be swept from her feet. Rumplestiltskin said, “It’s alright, dearie. I’ve got you.”

He did. He _had_ her. What would he do with her? While thrilled with the contact, he was a little taken aback by her weakness. He’d only just seen her run, at full tilt, bare feet over grass and leaf. He’d silently gloried in it.

“Where shall I take you, Mirana? To your Hedge? Do you need a doctor?” There was one nearby, as it happened.

Lips tucked between her teeth, she gave a rapid shake of her head. “No… no. Would you take me to my room?”

_Would_ he. Would he ever. “Of course.”

“And… use the back stairs? I can’t have everyone seeing me in this state.”

Rumplestiltskin made no comment as to her state. While she’d lost strength, she was – nevertheless – quite fetching. He was in a state, himself. He nodded and set out, endeavoring to raise no alarms over Marmoreal’s queen. Bethany flew-hopped along, a flower girl trailing the bridal couple.

Oh, he felt quite puffed-up. This act approached heroics.

On the back stairs, a chilly, bare-bones place of stone and wood, Mirana became silly. She pointed upward as he ascended, and said, “On! On, thou lagging and spiritless steed!” She gave a weak kick with her heel, nudging his thigh. Voice lowered, as if asking in confidence, she said, “Do you feel my spurs?”

“Indeed, dearie.” He smiled.

“Then, couldn’t you do this at a gallop?” Her voice chided, and she grinned. She seemed a bit more herself.

“I think not.”

“So, I’m a burdensome cow. Is that it?”

“Oh, yes.” He raised his brow at her.

Abruptly, she let her head fall back, her long hair trailing tendrils toward the ground. Her hands covered her face…. Surely she understood he didn’t actually find her remotely bovine.

“I’m so ashamed.” She moaned, muffled behind her hands. “You caught me out. _Spying_.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Miri.”

He came to her room. He’d been at its threshold, but not inside. For a moment he stood in the doorway, feeling as though he waggled his cock before the very surprised eyes of virgins. Should he enter?

Bethany, in a grumpy, person-like manner, shuffled impatiently around him. He peered down at her crow-swagger… she walked into the room, then – with beak and talons – she climbed Mirana’s bed. She seemed to be leading the way.

“Would you set me down on the bed, Rumple?”

He shivered, feeling a troubling sense of magic as he crossed the threshold… holding his unexpected bride. He carried her into her own domain, thus earning a place for himself.

Settling her down, he looked at her upturned face.

“I’m horrified you saw me doing something so…. sneaky and despicable, Rumple.”

Rumplestiltskin sat beside her, aware of many layers of intimacy. He could not care less what sneaky and despicable thing she got up to… but he was curious about her motivations, about the power that watching Victor and Jefferson had over her. Her blood… her scent was different. Charged. It was hot. Beneath her surface, she was simmering with confusion.

He said, “Don’t look to _me_ to be in judgment of you, Mirana.”

Uncertain, she asked, “Because you do sneaky and despicable things?”

In agreement, voice low, he said, “Aye. I do sneaky and despicable things.”

They regarded one another, then Mirana took a shallow breath. She said, “I…. I feel wrong to ask. But could you undo the back of my dress and unlace the damn corset? I’d rather you than one of my ladies, just now. If it’s not asking too much.”

_Could_ he.

It was all Rumplestiltskin could do to keep a mirthful evil, and possibly fear, from showing on his face. Gloat rose up within, like a dark bubble with a rainbow sheen of oil, and then, quite unexpectedly, popped. There stood a small witch, holding a sewing needle that yet trailed thread. She glowered at Rumplestiltskin, a waifish thing in striped stockings.

Clearing his throat, he murmured his assent. Wizard dementia; it was getting out of hand. He situated himself behind Mirana, and contemplated a long row of pearl buttons going down her back. He contemplated, also, the idea of Mirana living within a world of women, wearing dresses that required the assistance of others. They dressed her, like a doll.

He was long-fingered, clever-fingered and used to the workings of delicate things, but the buttons seemed very small. His fingers felt clumsy. He moved carefully, mindful of images he’d carried of ripping fine things from Mirana’s body…. Floor littered with notions and ribbons that glimmered and sparkled.

The wee witch brought friends. They gathered, silent and staring him down; a girl gang _. Do not fuck with her_ , their stony gazes suggested.

When he got the dress undone, he beheld the punishing thing, the interesting yet confounding business of the corset. When he’d first embarked into the world of women and sex, it had been bodices… a fairly up-front business. He’d since grown used to the little sling-shot device, the bra, with Storybrooke Belle. She called it a “boob-holder”. Cumbersome things, breasts… perhaps along the lines of balls, and yet balls were not called upon to defy gravity.

He stared at the long row of tightly interlacing ribbon going down Mirana’s back, and wondered… where does one start?

“Is your handmaid a sailor?” Maybe he should get Killain in here for a consultation.  “Or perhaps a mathematician? These knots appear to be geometrically engineered.”

“Ah.” Mirana said. “It’s a test, Rumplestiltskin. It’s designed to test your math skills and overall intelligence.”

“Well, dearie. I’m going to use magic.”

“Now, that’s a terrible cheat.”

Making his voice low again, close to her ear, he said, “Aye. Sneaky and despicable.”

He felt her shiver, and it was pleasing. The girl gang menaced, and he thought; _bugger off, you lot_. With a wave of his hand along the willowy length of Mirana’s back, the ribbons of her corset undid themselves and the boned garment fell open.

Mirana gasped, then took a grateful, truel breath. Her hands clutched the front of her dress to her chest.

 Rumplestiltskin’s eyes traveled over her bared skin… a creamy sculpture at shoulder blades and spine. The small of her back, shadowed, disappeared into more beribboned frippery. Bloomers?

“Thank you.” She breathed. Her back expanded with breath.

“Indeed, dearie.”

_Stop_ , Rumplestiltskin thought. Stop. Stop. The wee witches concurred; _Stop_. Mirana was a bird, or a feral cat. Trust had to be established. But his hand paid no heed to his head… his mind slowed, eyes hungry at Mirana’s back. His breathing slowed as well. He watched his fingertips touch lightly at the base of her neck, her hair over her shoulder for the event of the de-corseting. His fingers trailed down, a ghost of a touch, along her spine. He watched her skin goose-bump in his wake and heard her little intake of breath.

Her spine curved as she hunched, holding her dress to her body in a hug. Caught, face awash in heat, Rumplestiltskin leaned forward and kissed between her shoulder blades. He heard himself purr and scented magnolia and lemon rind… pale roses, wild in the Hedge. But, along with those things was the hot scent… something more like fire, less like greenery. It was like there were cinders beneath her skin.

Lust became foolhardy, forceful. It moved inside him, pleasurable and painful, a pain he sought to repeat, expand. It swam in his blood. He moved close to her and kissed up her neck, at her ear. He reveled in her warmth and accelerated breath. At her ear, he murmured, “Let’s take this off.” His hands slid under both dress and corset, trying to wriggle beneath the press of her arms to her body, holding her dress in place.

His actions set up a caterwauling protest amongst the wee witches. Tiny feet stomped and little fists were raised, and – oddly – they raised a chant of _Pi-rate! Pi-rate_! A familiar looking cutlass was brandished. It was all rather distracting.

Pirate?

Rumplestiltskin leaned back, his sudden movement causing Mirana to swivel around and look at him. “What is it?” she asked, her eyes scanning his expression.

It was clear, then… she wasn’t stopping him. Rumplestiltskin almost groaned aloud; diverted by his own Wizard dementia! Fucking hell. He wanted to slap himself around.

Should he reveal this new weakness, this new corruption of soul? He was loath to do so, but the little witches were driving him absolutely batty. He wanted to retort back to them, to swat at them like gnats. He wanted to question their chant.

Muddled, he asked, “You don’t see… or hear… a group of very small women, do you?” His brows climbed up, raised in the center like a puzzled dog. His eyes rounded.

To his great surprise, Mirana’s hands flew up in her customary signal of alarm. Her dress and corset fell away, and, for a moment, the molecules of the air hovered. It could have been a fraction of a second, but Rumplestiltskin’s mind seemed to come to a stop. Time stopped with it.

Mirana’s face was all wide, dark eyes, her mouth a little _Oh_! Rumplestiltskin took in every detail of her revealed breasts… smallish, but sweetly rounded. Pale, buff to dusty-pink nipples. Her breasts were jaunty with the lift of her arms, somewhat a-jiggle and clearly throwing a taunt his way, inviting or perhaps drawing his mouth to suckle. Her flesh goosebumped, nipples hardening and darkening, and then her arms abruptly crossed, covering her body.

As if rudely awoken from a hypnotic state, Rumplestiltskin’s eyes snapped up meet Mirana’s. He was still lost in an image of a tracery of blue veins about her bosom and chest, very subtle. He saw the ghostly presentation of the vascular map repeat itself at her neck and temples. Perhaps her temple throbbed a bit.

They both blushed furiously and regarded one another, open-mouthed. Ignoring the heat that engulfed her face, Mirana gushed, “You _see_ them?”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Shared Psychosis

Oh… gods. Was it possible it wasn’t dementia?

Carefully, so carefully Rumplestiltskin said, “The… wee witches?”

“ _Yes_!” Mirana stood, still covering her chest. The corset was on the floor, oddly plank-like. How could it be considered clothing? Her dress slipped further down, revealing… not bloomers, but yet another skirt. A slip? She was dressed in layers.

“Do… _you_ see them?” Rumplestiltskin blurted. This was impossible. He needed to know about this; he had questions. However, Mirana’s clothing seemed to be falling off of its own will. He felt obligated to assist.

She stomped a foot. Further down went the heavy dress. Rumplestiltskin was mesmerized by the continuing revelation of skin, by her slim abdomen and coltish demeanor. Possibly a nipple was peeping from the fold of her arms.

The wee witches were meaningful to her… so much so that she’d lost all artifice.

“Of course I do!” she said, breathy and excitable. _He_ was very excited. “They’re _mine_! A part of me. I thought… I was always told they were my imaginary friends. Did you _always_ see them?”

Gazing, rapturous, Rumplestiltskin said, “No, dearie. Not until last night.”

“You’re aware of them, now?”

“Aye. Why are they chanting, ‘Pirate’?”

Mirana’s hands flew up again, and Rumplestiltskin thought, _poor girl_. He smiled. As long as he provided shock or surprise, she seemed unable to curtail her customary expression. From his seated position, while she stood, her breasts performed a sassy sway.

“I’m having a great deal of fun, Mirana.” He confessed. A blurt of a laugh snickered out.

She said, “Oh!” and covered herself once more. “I’m sorry.”

“You really needn’t apologize.”

“What must you think of me?”

His smile went rogue, and Rumplestiltskin said, “Terrible things. _Ghastly_ things. But truly; why ‘Pirate’? I assume they mean Killian.”

Seemingly in irritation, Mirana hopped and kicked her way out of her dress, endeavoring to avoid using her hands. As she did, she huffed, “Yes. Killian. They… (hop, huff)… want me to couple with him.” Her blush deepened. She escaped the dress and kicked it away, then sat on the bed. “ _They_ want him, you see. I suppose they feed from my experience.”

This was unhappy news. A wee witch jutted her chin out at him, almost a challenge. She folded her little hand beneath her chin, and… _flipped_ it at him. The wretch.

Mirana added, “I’m sorry about their behavior.”

“Do… _you_ want him?” Rumplestiltskin asked. How could it be any other way? Surely these small brutes were extensions of Mirana, herself.

But, she said, “No.”

It hung there. Like the suspended molecules of air, the “no’ hung between them. Did she, then, want _him_? There was an uncomfortable question of his own newly relaxed attitude toward Killian Jones; his ever-errant imagination.

He decided to change tactics. His eyes swallowed up Mirana’s near nakedness, her close proximity. His mind poked around in her small displays of gracelessness, perhaps rebellion… her dance to get out of her dress, her unwitting exhibitionism. He considered the fact that she still sat with him, secreted away in her bedroom.

He asked, “What were you doing, love? When I ‘caught you out.’”

Mirana shook her head, unwilling to answer. Or perhaps she didn’t know how.

“Did you like watching them?”

It was clear she’d liked it… Rumplestiltskin prodded with his soft rasp of a voice, seeking to bring what she’d felt back to light. Her look to him was askance. Dark and somber eyes, the fury of her ongoing blush stirring. Her lips were warm with color as well, making Rumplestiltskin restless.

With a small nod, she said, “Yes. But… more so, I could feel them. Jefferson, I think. I could feel what he felt. It was unsparing.”

“It made you breathless. Weak.”

“Yes.”

“Have you…?” how did he proceed? This woman was grown, much more so than Belle, when she’d first called to the Dark One. But… was she yet untried? She must know something of sex. “Have you felt those things for yourself, love? Have you kissed and pet that way?”

Her eyes met his only briefly, fretful. She turned her face away and said, “No. Not like that.”

“Like what, then?” Rumplestiltskin asked, curious.

Her head fell forward, her hair veiling her face. “I can’t say.”

“What can it matter, dearie?”

He watched her bare shoulders shrug, a dimple at the joint, long shadows playing over her like water. She turned, moving her body to face him, directly. She hugged herself modestly, but seemed very naked.

“I’ve kissed other girls.” She confessed, all in a rush. “And, once, a boy. But it was years ago for both, more play than real. I pretended at feelings like those I felt today, but it was never what I felt.”

Rumplestiltskin’s chest rose and fell. His hand again went astray; he touched her lips and watched a spark come into her eyes. He touched the pads of his fingers beneath her chin.

“Tell me.” He said.

“There’s nothing more to tell.”

“Your handmaids?”

She nodded. His cock, a nuisance for many minutes and far more present than while he was hung over, throbbed and set up a well of ache. He’d found it a little odd that Mirana would become so aroused by men kissing one another, yet he was immensely aroused by thoughts of her, at play with her White Ladies.

His imagination, coached by his blood, rose to the occasion. He imagined her, flesh bared, wet and seeking a release that was not fully understood, in an embrace with one of her ladies. Maybe more than one. Maybe the whole fucking court was at hand, frothy dresses cast aside, powdery make-up smeared; a cooing dovecote of women.

Probably, he told himself, this was not her reality.

_No, probably not_ , agreed a small witch, a somewhat butch little specimen who gave him a frank look of derision. She added, _fuckhead_. Still, they seemed to be warming to him a bit… they warmed as he warmed. Or, was it because Mirana warmed?

Was she aware of the looks and postures the creatures threw his way? Did she hear those things they said in response to his sullied thoughts?

Gods… he couldn’t stop the thoughts, even while the witches rolled their eyes at him. Even with Mirana gazing at him, wondering.

His mind fired off a collage of pink pussy, glistening tongues, swollen lips and open mouths… sea-shell fingernails and Mirana’s short, sometimes bitten nails of glossy-black… fingers jiggling engorged clits and sliding in wet, hot flesh.

Yes, sullied. He was deeply sullied by pornography and by games other witches he’d known had played; sometimes for his pleasure. Ursula’s big, suckable clit, Cruella’s demanding, exhibitionist demeanor, and Maleficent… her exterior of prim, yet sexy denial… melted fully into a voluptuous, soft rapture as one of Ursula’s tentacles snaked out to penetrate and tease.

He was _ruined_ , his mind as soot-stained as his heart. It was clear. Between knowing such women as these and nursing his new, raunchy and subjugating curiosity toward Killian, he was utterly unfit. Unwell. He couldn’t slather his sickness all over the pristine, reluctant and yet curious woman who sat before him.

Even now, staring at Mirana’s aura of fragility and feeling her wave of innocence – that was yet ungentle–  he wanted to handle her roughly. He wanted to spread her legs apart and gloat over her arousal. He wanted to lick and suck at her until she screamed, all control lost, and then slide, serpentine and inexorable, inside her… to hilt himself, balls deep, and pump his anxious, eager come inside her.

He wanted to kneel between her legs, after; to play with her sensitive clit and watch his seed drip out of her, as pearly and iridescent as the buttons of her dress, the creamy color in stark contrast to her reddened flesh. He wanted Killian as his witness… and perhaps to lick Mirana clean as her thighs trembled and her belly shook. As Rumplestiltskin touched her face and kissed her.

He whispered, “ _Fuck_.”

_YOU!_ A little witch pointed at him, rudely, _are a filthy, depraved, degenerate and corrupt old FUCK_.

She wasn’t wrong, Rumplestiltskin thought. He looked at Mirana through a fog of guilt, ashamed. The incensed witch was not alone in her assessment, but… she wasn’t part of the majority. A few stood apart, scandalized. Horrified. They brandished biscuit rollers at him. They poured over books of curses and gathered vile ingredients.

Meanwhile… a larger gathering of wee witches were blushing and fanning themselves. They… _pined_? A few traded experimental kisses. Others, more direct, seemed to be constructing a little wizard of their own. He was astonished to see himself, or a creature very like himself, formed in miniature.

Mirana’s brow raised in question, and Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat. His cock was in command; forming words would not be easy. “I should go.” Brevity was best.

Mirana’s expression of curiosity became one of dismay. Several little witches looked up from erotic adventures, and said, _nooooo_ …. Those more stridently opposed to his flooding river of filth smacked their rolling pins to the palms of their hands and said, _Yes, go. Do_.

“You’re disgusted with me.” Mirana said, unhappy.

“Oh, certainly dearie. Your sweetness and innocence are extraordinarily off-putting.”

It appeared she was taking him to heart. He amended, “I’m playing, Mirana. It’s you who would be disgusted… if you knew my thoughts. Your wee witches are quite put out with me.”

Mirana bit her bottom lip. Rumplestiltskin’s cock jumped in response… he nearly moaned aloud. She said, “Not all of them.” Her eyes met his in a bold way, then looked down again.

It froze Rumplestiltskin. How much of his darkness did she know? How much did her witches share?

Did she accept it?

It was too much… the idea that she would accept him, his corruption, his disgrace. That she might bare herself to his teeth. If he stayed, as he so desired, he feared it would become ugly. Should she be permissive, willing… it would be all the uglier.

He stood, holding his clasped hands before the unfortunate tenting of his trousers. A witch said, _Now, that’s more like it_ , and he was both amazed and embarrassed to see Mirana take a furtive glance at his crotch.

“Don’t go.” She looked uncertain in every way. Her cheeks were warm. She seemed hesitant to move forward, but saddened for him to leave.

“I’m sorry, love.” He murmured, bending to kiss her forehead. If she uncrossed her arms, all was lost. Well nourished on lust, the Dark One would come at her with tooth and claw.

As he opened her door, she said, “But, Rumplestiltskin, I still need to speak with you. About the mushrooms.”

It made him break into a grin. Mushrooms. He’d nearly forgotten.

“Aye, dearie. He said. “Perhaps we can take our tea together?” Tea was big in Marmoreal, as were tea parties. Tea was laid out at least four times a day, and sometimes there was a midnight madness tea. Jefferson’s favorite.

Mirana nodded in agreement. She returned a smile, wan and sad.

One of the wee witches to whom he’d caused grave offense said, _Oh, shame you can’t stay. Bye-bye, now. Fuckhead._

 

 

 


	18. The Green Chapel

Mirana was in a little chapel of green. She sat on the ground beneath a sheltering roof of wild carrot froth. The white flowers amidst the deep shadows of green sent up a light scent, nearly missed beneath the bright and bitter tang of green, the humusy, mushroom scent of soil.

The scent was mildly sweet and touched with citrus. The canopy of the shrub hummed and moved with bees.

Victor crawled under the bower and joined her, and was surprised to see her blush. Her eyes flitted to his and then away, not quite meeting. Her eyes were as restless as her hands could be, and it was not her usual mode with him.

In her cupped hands she held a bird’s skull, stripped clean by insects and elements… maybe by whatever entity walked the Hedge. It glowed softly, echoing the ghost-shimmer of Mirana’s dress, her hair. It echoed the lavish spill of white flowers all around; magnolia, dogwood, Datura, silver bells, alyssum.

Outside of the Hedge’s shadow, the late sun baked the grassy earth and raised a scent that, weirdly, made Victor want to find Jefferson and _rut_ … as if the earthy scent made him go into season.

“’Sup, sister.” He greeted Mirana.

She smiled at him, but maintained a fluttery nervousness. It was atypical, her moth demeanor. Were her hands free, they would rise and gesture with a dancer’s curl to her fingers, a give-away glimmer of black at her fingernails. Victor was unused to her mannerisms when they were alone, together. Then, she tended towards silliness. Her Queen persona became frayed.

“What’s up wit choo, boo?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing, Victor.”

She briefly met his eyes. Her cheeks were pink. What the hell? Victor decided to let it go, to ride it out, side-step. He much preferred their easy repour, playing in a storm or in Mirana’s laboratory.

“Whatcha got, there?” Stupid question; he had eyes. Still.

“I’m trying to make it speak.”

“Really?” Victor leaned forward, his eyes moving over bone, empty eye-sockets, a beak which no longer housed a tongue. “What kind of bird was it?”

“A mockingbird.”

“Ah. So, a talker.”

Mirana nodded, the forefinger of one hand stroking the skull as if the bird yet lived. Victor watched, wondering. He was aware that some of his notions of science bordered on the magical, but Mirana was all about magic. The feeling was foreign, but familiar. It felt very different to Victor from the magic of Rumplestiltskin.

His magic was nothing to dismiss; it had once reattached Victor’s own severed arm, in a blink. But it was true, what Rumplestiltskin said. It came with a price. If Mirana’s magic had a price, it seemed the cost must be exacted from herself… no one else seemed to pay.

It was a passing thought, but Victor suddenly felt cold. He looked at her pale skin, her pale hair… as anemic as his own. He looked at the dark circles under her eyes and wondered; did magic _take_ from her? Did the Hedge take from her, not waiting for a voluntary sacrifice? Had it done these things to her body… drained her of color and filled her with quiet?

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the thought. Shifting his position, he tried to think of what he wanted to say; something along the lines of drawing Mirana away from the Hedge for a bit. Away from magic.

Before he could speak, the skull spoke. Startling him, its beak clacked a few times, snapping at air. Then it said, “How now, Doctor Frankenstein?”

He froze, and Mirana gave him a brilliant smile. Her dark eyes sparkled with her proximity to the dead.

 

 

At a distance, Jefferson watched. Leroy and Rumplestiltskin stood near, and Jefferson could feel tension rolling off Rumplestiltskin. The Dark One was a possessive bugger, as bad as himself. Like Jefferson, he wasn’t overjoyed to see the two pale-headed weirdos, close together in the green, conferring over something undoubtedly necrosed.

A playful and yet not-nice surge went through Jefferson, and he observed, “Too bad Victor’s gay.”

Rumplestiltskin made a sound that was somewhat offended, a small, incredulous scoff. It intensified whatever wayward, toddler desire Jefferson felt.

Leroy said, “What? Isn’t he your… fella?”

Rumplestiltskin made another sound. Derision? Funny, coming from one seen emerging from the pirate’s bedroom after a night of hard drinking. And who had, frankly, looked as though he was ridden hard and put away wet. The not-nice rose up, and Jefferson said, “Sure, he’s my fella. But, I mean, look. They just go together. Riff-Raff and Magenta. Roy Batty and Pris. Billy Idol and… some punk-pale hussy.”

Both Rumplestiltskin and Leroy looked at him, rounded and narrowed eyes in open question.

“I don’t work.” Jefferson shrugged. “I see a lot of crap T.V.”

Happily, he walked away. He felt better. He left them, Rumplestiltskin in particular, to consider the couple-hood of uncoupled people. Maybe he would poke at Rumplestiltskin more, later… ask about Killian, he whose handsomeness appealed to all genders. Maybe he’d use a phrase like ‘slap and tickle’.

“Heh, heh.” He smiled at the drunk mice.

They smiled back, raising small glasses. Congenial, as always.

 

 

 


	19. The Walker

The Walker of the Hedge walked. Leaves rustled, mice scurried to keep up with him. Rabbits, auburn-brown in daylight, were transformed to smoked silver beneath a pregnant, growing moon.

Crows slept beneath their wings or with their heads tucked into chest ruff. Owls moved in silence, the frayed tips of their wings like velvet against currents of soft air. In the far-off mountains, wolves howled to one another. _Are you there? I am here_.

The Walker; the Green Man to some, Jack-in-the-Green, the Keeper; had the body of a tall, hard-muscled man. His hair was long and dark, waves and ripples were matted and snarled, caught up with twigs and feathers. His beard was dark, but streaked with white or silver on either side of his chin. His eyes were black pools, and glimmered when touched with light.

He looked like a fearsome man, but he was not; he was spirit. From his broad and planed brow sprouted antlers. They were many-tined and littered with the life of the Hedge; leaf and vine, feather and blossom. Spiders perched on the tips and strung webbing between the tines. Messages traveled the threads.

Though crowned with the mark of a prey animal, he was not prey. He had no natural enemies. He could make weapons, if need be, but most of his weaponry was in his head… his thoughts. His thoughts could take form and make changes. His thoughts were thick within the Hedge, and bled out into the worlds.

Foxes trotted alongside, and – while the Walker was present – rabbits were content to be near the sly play of their predators. Here and there racoons stood sentry. They stood on hind legs and held torches; the moving light shone reflectively in the eyes of night creatures.

A black snake had wrapped itself around one of the Walker’s arms, making a torc of itself as it soaked in a strange and sourceless heat. Deer were shadows in the thicket, delicate hooves moving in soft whispers. They were bedding down, but wanted to be near the Walker, only for a moment.

The force of the spirit was great, and it moved always in life and death. There was no one or the other, no going between the two states of existence. They happened together, all at once, now and forever. Decay of leaf and bone, of gristle and fur… it fed maggot and grub. Dying trees begat mushrooms and moss. They were colonized with insects. A symbol of the Walker, the yew shed its outside layers as it died and sprouted anew in its center. It died, then birthed itself. This was the force of the Walker.

As such, his eyes were deep and wary with a bitter caution, a sense of loss. His body surged with powerful, unstoppable life… his cock was nearly always engorged, announcing itself as generator and regenerator; it thrived on desire.

But his thoughts, feeding through the Hedge, could be melancholy and hurtful. They could linger too long on the decomposing body of an animal or tree, and wallow. Parts of the Hedge became foul with such thoughts. Leaves turned a rubbery, leathery black, powdered with mildew. Stinkhorn mushrooms made colonies in wet soil, shocking and fleshy, an echo of the Walker’s proud cock, but smelling of a fishy, rotting and discontent death.

Parts of the Hedge withered and collapsed in on themselves, rot eventually drying to tinder, catching fire, turning to ash. In time, the ash would sprout green and begin, again.

 

 

Mirana was the chosen paramour of the Walker, and he stalked her dreams. He came in different forms, different aspects of himself. A black snake, scales articulate and gleaming, he curled about her dream body. His forked tongue tasted and scented, and he fed from her. He took what her bloodline demanded she offer.

Mirana dreamt that she left Marmoreal. She walked far from the Hedge, from the ceaseless tug and pull of spirit, felt always at the back of her skull and just behind her navel.

She left the vale of green fertility bestowed by the Hedge, and found herself on a road made of hard-packed sand and crushed shell. The sand was hot against the soles of her bare feet; the shell-shards poked and sometimes cut.

She didn’t care. She kept moving. Though she loved the Hedge and could never leave it for long, it smothered. Her eyes were hungry for open land. For muted colors, lost to glare. Her soul longed for the roar of the ocean, as steady as a heartbeat, loud enough to drown out other voices. She longed for salt on her skin and tidepools filled with ghost crabs and seahorses.

She was followed.

Tall stands of sea oats waved on drifts of dunes, and a small herd of dappled horses lay down in the rippled landscape. Sand blew over them; if they didn’t rise, they would become bones, a bleached graveyard.

From among them came a man made of briar. His form was all of twined and woven twig and bark… roses and ivy sprouted over his moving form. Shocking were the red poppies, black at the centers, that were his eyes. Thick, suggestive and dangling, scarlet-red amaryllis hung long between his legs, the fat bud not fully opened.

Sap rose. Mirana caught the sharp scent. It cut through her dream and intruded the more basic elements of salt crystal and air, water and current, sun upon sand. Pine resin, eucalyptus sap; green, green, green. Green, on the move.

It made her feel strange, and she tried to alter her dream. It was _her_ place… it was the place she ran to. It was simple, spare… so much more so than Marmoreal.

She made a plank-floored house, empty but for one shell in a brightly lit window, a broom and sand that she swept from the floorboards. In the morning she saw dolphins, their humped shapes rollicking to the east. They didn’t speak to her, they didn’t crowd her head. They went about their routine, and Mirana watched.

She felt her lips dry and cake with sticky salt. She moved about in her shift and breathed with ease. Seaweed collected at the rocky shore, and she squatted to peer at the life that moved in its weird, frilly foliage.

This was _her_ place; it didn’t belong to the Hedge. Still, its emissary came. It assembled itself and came to fetch her. Its bramble and thick, sap and honey scent, the heavy scent of roses made no sense within the seas-side landscape.

Mice moved in its head and small moths fluttered in its chest. Its strange head, branches rising like antlers, turned to regard her with its startled poppy-eyes. The amaryllis appendage bounced and nodded… it dripped pollen-heavy nectar to the ground.

Mirana felt conflicting things. She wanted to run. She could run over the dunes and rouse the horses… she could sprout a gull’s wings and fly. She could swim past the roar and pounding of the breakers and disappear.

She also wanted to make herself naked. The scent of the creature caused arousal in her body, instinctual. She wanted to be vulnerable to the thorn-prick and sticky sap of the briar man… vulnerable to spider bite and mouse pitter-pat. She wanted to lay down, open her legs and let his poppy eyes witness the swell and heat that was happening to her. It happened without her consent, and left her confused.

Instead, she sat down in the hot sand. She sat cross-legged and sank her ever-antsy fingers into the sand to feel a cold, gritty wetness, not far beneath the heated top-layer. She closed her eyes and cast a spell upon herself to become invisible.

 

 

 

The Walker knelt down in Mirana’s chapel of wild carrot and held the bird skull she’d left there. Perhaps she’d left it for him. His dream body, now that of a hybrid sort of man-beast, a furred and horned thing that smelled of blackberry leaf and sun-warmed leather, moved inside of Mirana’s dream body.

As it did so, the Walker’s hips thrust in the green chapel, cock bouncing, fucking air. He lifted the skull to his lips and murmured words in a language no one remembered. Big hand spread over his chest, his bouncing cock suddenly expanded. It pulsed. It spurted pearly liquid, hot but rapidly cooling. Where it spilled on the mossy ground, a path of feverfew and dianthus sprouted.

In her bed, Mirana moaned, her limbs moving slowly as if she tread water. She squirmed from her bedclothes, body trembling, her nightgown riding up to reveal her nakedness, beneath.

Rumplestiltskin sat at the edge of her bed, a voyeuristic figure in near darkness. He watched… he _felt_. He stared upon her bared legs and lower belly… he watched her legs open, what was between them lost to shadow.

He saw that her sheets, her gown were covered in twigs, leaves… sticky sap and black dirt. She smelled of the Hedge.

 _Shhhhhh_ , cautioned a little witch, making him still his hand as he reached to stroke Mirana’s leg. The witch murmured, _He is with her, still_.

 

 

 


	20. Jealous

Killian Jones watched Rumplestiltskin play at court, and didn’t know how to feel. He didn’t know what to do with his body… _be relaxed_ , he told himself. Strike a casual, manly sort of pose and don’t bloody _think_ about it.

He thought about it. Each time Rumplestiltskin’s eyes moved his way, he wondered if he was truly seen. It made him awkward and overly aware of his hook. He developed a new sympathy for the Queen’s agitated little flutter as his heart birthed troubled, winged things.

Rumplestiltskin was at her side. Though not enthroned, the pleasure he took in standing at her right hand was obvious and vast. She turned her eyes up to him, at times seeking his opinion, his input, as if he was part of her court – its wizard or priest – rather than a visitor, an influence from afar. As if he was her consort.

He stayed by the White Queen’s side even after court. He seemed to marvel at her strange postures, her dance-like way of moving among her people. He seemed to relish those things about her that Killian found so odd, perhaps a little off-putting. He had a ready smile for her ghoulish ways.

Killian found himself poking at Rumplestiltskin. He wanted something, but was uncertain as to what. When Rumplestiltskin’s attention was set so fully upon the Queen, he felt newly adrift. Alone.

He was out of place in Marmoreal. Of course, they all were. But Killian, gaudy crow, cutting a line of stark black, seemed all wrong. He was a specter in the sweep of green and froth of flowers… against the pale, veined marble and columns hugged tight by wisteria, by climbing roses and glory bower.

When Mirana glanced at him, he felt it. It was a light touch against his skin, and he felt the question in it. Of all of the group who traveled from Storybrooke, it was only he who troubled her. Her eyes puzzled. Her hands hesitated, then took flight.

 

 

How did anyone get anything done around her, Killian wondered? There was work of a sort going on, mostly in the way of domestic chores. People swept and gardened. It seemed possible some were applying touch-up paint to flowers. Small creatures pruned in the lattice ceiling of the courtyard; birds flapped wings at cobwebs.

Killian felt an almost imbecilic urge to whistle while he ambled along. He nearly walked into an occupied web, the hair on his neck standing up as he became aware of a little cache of mummified corpses, a spider’s pantry.

Still, Wonderland lacked the get-up-and-go feeling of Storybrooke; fresh-scrubbed people zipping off in cars to places of business. Paper cups of coffee, on the go. A notable shortage of drunk rodents. People looking busy and important, distractedly consulting phones.

It lacked the constant toil of running a ship, keeping it steady, in repair and in tight working order. Keeping its more or less massive structure hidden from those who tracked.

Wonderland dreamt. It dreamt, and out popped talking animals and a vast, sprawling beauty of earth. Out popped a more casual and relaxed Rumplestiltskin, gone a’courting. Zelena’s tyranny on a back burner, simmering.

Killian felt… jealous. It came not only as a surprise, but a shock. It jarred his bones and rattled his teeth. His hook vibrated like a tuning fork. He wasn’t jealous and coveting the White Queen… he coveted Rumplestiltskin. Who coveted the White Queen. Bloody hell.

How, he kept asking himself? Why? It was an insult, and it was literally added to injury. He found himself staring at his hook, the only gift he’d ever received from the Crocodile, that rotten bitch. (Unless one counted getting his heart back. He didn’t count it).  Surely it couldn’t be ignored. It was impossible for it to be forgotten. Could it be forgiven?

Something had changed, and it had happened even before Zelena and the latest curse. The change had lurked and crept about. Killian had watched Gold, wondering… Could this man be the same loathsome, scabrous creature that destroyed Milah and took his hand? Could he be the same whimpering mouse that preceded the Dark One?

Aye. Yes, he could be the same person. He _was_ the same. But Killian watched Gold’s tightly controlled demeanor, his quietly sardonic manner, and felt peculiar. When Gold felt unobserved, Rumplestiltskin could be seen. His eyes were filled with sorrows, with remorse… it could be difficult to witness. It clenched Killian’s belly.

And then the business with his heart. The hand wasn’t enough, evidently. The Croc had taken his heart and made a slave of him, set him to nefarious tasks, and the bloody Imp had taken pleasure in it. And so had Killian.

It was a secret, his pleasure. He’d growled and fought and tried to resist his capture, his enslavement. He railed about it to Emma and company, after. In actual fact, it had woken something within himself. He’d found himself waiting… to be summoned, or for Rumplestiltskin to find him. To stroke the heart, a breathless sort of pain, and to command him. To remove all choice, all indecision.

When it was over, the Croc once more put in his place, more or less, Killian was left with the feeling he now felt, again. He’d been adrift. Alone.

 

 

He spotted the butterfly, the little white moth who was causing such doubt in his mind, who drew Rumplestiltskin’s attention and left Killian squirming in discomfort. Jealousy. It was ghastly.

It appeared she might be doing a morsel of work, glory be. She sat under the shifty light of a tall sycamore, studying hard at, perhaps, a ledger. She held a feather-plume pen aloft, in her way, as she calculated and considered. Mary, Mary, Killian thought; quite contrary.

A soot stain against the luminescence of her dress, a black cat nuzzled to her hip. It rubbed the side of its face against her, cat language for, “You are mine.” Killian considered doing the same to Rumplestiltskin… scent-mark the Imp. Grip the back of Rumplestiltskin’s neck with his teeth and rub bodily against him.

Disgruntled, Killian turned away. He didn’t know what to do about the butterfly. To him she seemed all costume, unreal and unreachable. How could he begin to communicate with her? There was an embarrassing danger of requesting that she stay away from his man. Gods, the absurdity.

He felt a nagging tug at his spine and turned to face her again. She absently scratched the cat’s head, chewing on the center of her quill. Well, that was something. Gnawing on the pen in broad daylight, like she was sucking the marrow from a chicken bone; not so queenly.

The tug happened again, a feeling of being led by something attached to his sternum… it was not unlike Rumplestiltskin making demands on his heart. He followed the feeling and approached. When Mirana looked up at him, uncertain and ever-fluttery, he sank down before her. Aiming for tried and true, a practiced scoundrel, he gave her a rogue’s smile.

“Greetings, sweetheart.” Oh, probably not the way one addressed a queen. Whatever.

Lowering her pen, Mirana said, “Killian Jones.”

They stared at one another, and Killian wondered what the hell there was to say. Why had he been pulled? He pet the cat, who was giving him an intense stare-down from golden eyes.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked.

Tilting her head, Mirana said, “Do you not know?” Amusement danced in her eyes, a twinkling darkness that was even darker than Rumplestilskin’s. For all the darkness, they were nowhere near as secretive.

“What should I know, love?”

As he scratched the cat, it lifted its chin and looked away. Killian felt oddly snubbed.

“He’s your friend.” Mirana said. “He’s Rumplestiltskin.”

Killian blinked. He wasn’t sure he understood. What was more unlikely; that Rumplestiltskin was a cat, or that he’d been described as Killian’s friend? His limbs tingled and he spluttered, “Did you turn him into a _cat_?” The vile witch. Vile witches were bloody _everywhere._

Now Mirana’s smile was broad… she was quite toothsome, actually. Also a touch un-queenly. Holy hell, the witch had done it. But she said, “No, not I. He can shapeshift. You didn’t know?”

Well, no. He hadn’t known. It was cause for concern, much of it to do with being spied upon. Killian was still frozen in uncertainty, and the cat… sighed. It said, “You bleeding idiot.”

“Oh, gods.” Killian gasped. He broke into moving rivers of goosebumps. It felt as though his balls _crawled_. “It _is_ you.”

“Indeed, dearie.”

Trying to recover himself, Killian said, “A bit extreme with the balls, wouldn’t you say?” For the Rumple-cat displayed a hefty pair.

Mirana, a surprisingly naughty little smirk on her face, looked down at her lap. Rumple-cat continued to look aloof, but then suddenly gave Killian a swat. Sharp little claws scratched with an abrasive sting.

“Ow. Bloody Imp.” Killian said, retracting his hand. It hit him fully… he’d been _petting_ Rumplestiltskin.

Mirana murmured, “Really, Rumple. Can’t you two play like nice boys?”

Killian’s brow went a little berserk with incredulity. “Apologies, love.” Rumple-cat purred, pressing his head to Mirana’s hand.

 _Kiss_. _Arse_. Killian thought, staring at the cat in disbelief. Contempt, even. Look at him. Self-important, supercilious feline, flipping his tail at Killian, an in-your-face, balls and anus display of unconcerned confidence.

“Aye, mate.” Killian said, rather nasty. His thoughts had been turned nasty. Dirty. “Be a nice boy. Don’t be a pussy.”

Abruptly, Rumplestiltskin was recognizably himself. Killian considered that this really was not the same thing as being a nice boy. Rumple was rumpled, clothing in disarray. It would have once been uncharacteristic, but he'd gone a bit derelict in Wonderland.

Mirana stared at him, her hand still in his hair. She quickly withdrew her hand, as if burned. It hovered, stroking powers of air. It made Killian wonder.

“You must excuse the pirate.” Rumplestiltskin said, giving a look as nasty as Killian felt. “He’s an enormous arse.”

“Oh. _I’m_ an arse.”

“Aye.”

“ _I’m_ an arse.”

“Indeed, it continues to be true.”

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Mirana said, her eyes moving to and fro, from one to the other.

Killian couldn’t stop parroting. With a scoff, he said, “For _goodness_ sake.”

“You’re both acting like fools.” Mirana said, punitive, though her manner was soft, her voice low.

“Oh, no.” Killian felt the unstoppable fool within rise to the occasion. His hook rose to his chin, his eyes rounding as he looked at Rumplestiltskin. “We’ve upset mommy.”

What he knew of mommies was zero. Nevertheless, for some reason it felt good to say the words, his eyes trained to Rumplestiltskin. His mind was fixated on the night the Imp slept in his bed, drunk and snoring loudly. And on the following morning.

“No, _mate_.” Rumplestiltskin gave a mild-to-medium snarl. “You’ve upset _daddy_.” His voice was a quiet hiss.

Killian’s body _felt_ the night of heavy drinking. His back became alert, feeling Rumplestiltskin against him as they stared at the night sky. His torso, his nipples became sensitive, feeling Rumplestiltskin, heavy against him as he took a shockingly long piss.

Killian’s vision was inward, peering over the Imp’s shoulder to look at the sculpture of his hand, holding the soft creature between his legs. Why on earth should Killian be curious about that creature?

Uncomfortable in Mirana’s presence, he looked down. His fingers plucked at grass. _Say nothing_ , he advised himself; he couldn’t be trusted. He was kind of angry, very confused and his dick had gotten hard. It was a tricky combination.

Failing to manage the trick of it, he murmured, “Are you going to put me over your knee, then?” He knew marginally more of daddies than mommies. Primarily, he knew the landscape of fools.

“Aye. That I might.” Rumplestiltskin’s voice was still a low rasp. Killian risked a glance and saw that Rumplestiltskin also looked down, his clever fingers feeling through the grass. Killian felt caught, unable to look away from the long-fingered hand… broad palm and a bulk of knuckles. He imagined the hand slapping his bare bum, and he was unable to take a breath.

Mirana sighed, and Rumplestiltskin looked up at her. “Alright love?” he asked, and Killian breathed once more. He found he wanted Rumplestiltskin’s attention… _all_ of his attention. Why need this pale, cake-walk queen be concerned? Why must the Imp call her ‘love’?

“Yes.” She answered. “I just feel… awkward.”

With a slithery, unworthy feeling, Killian gave Mirana’s wayward hands a derisive look and snorted, “Well, I shouldn’t wonder.” He felt ashamed at once. It was cheap, poking fun at her oddness. He felt cheap.

He turned his blue gaze upon Rumplestiltskin, who had colored. Well, of course he was protective of his butterfly…. Any un-besotted idiot could see it. A storm was brewing on his face, and – in fact – one was brewing in the west. Killian wondered if one affected the other.

Mirana began to gather herself, to stand. Her face wasn’t the stony countenance that was Rumplestiltskin’s, but she blushed. Her eyes avoided Killian’s. He felt rotten.

“Mirana.” Rumplestiltskin said. He didn’t seem to have words. A shock to both Killian and Mirana, he pulled her back down, he pulled her close. His hands rose to her face, and he kissed her.

Bloody hell, Killian thought, the words habitual and emptied of meaning. His insides went through a pleasure-pain twist, and he wondered what he should do. A decent man would walk away, allow them privacy. Everyone knew he was indecent. He sat, frozen in place, staring.

It wasn’t a long kiss. Judging by Mirana, it was their first. She drew back, a sharp inhale as Rumplestiltskin’s lips touched hers. He pulled her closer, claiming her mouth. Killian watched, outside of time and space. He watched her body yield.

He watched Mirana forget his presence. Her hands were against Rumplestiltskin’s chest, braced. His hands moved into her silver-blonde hair, and Killian _saw_ her surrender. Her bones softened, her mouth opened. She sighed to feel the nuzzle of Rumplestiltskin’s lips. The fingers of her braced hands grasped, like the kneading of a cat.

Killian felt undone. Affected. Jealous, still.

The moment was over quickly, and he was rudely jerked back into a sense of linear time, a solid sense of place. Mirana leaned back, away, and Killian saw that water stood in her doe-like eyes. Rumplestiltskin saw, too, and said, “Ah, Miri.”

Struggling a bit to rise, she shook her head. She indicated ‘no’; but to what? Both men watched her hurry away.

Then, they turned pained and accusing eyes upon one another.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	21. The Wolf and the Wizard

Mirana hurried along, and spirits were close at her back. No longer of any comfort, they breathed down her neck.

It was the kiss.

Mirana’s fingertips touched her lips, and found a strange hurt there. She was rattled to her core. Blindly, she rushed to deeper thickets, within the shelter of the Hedge.

 

 

 

Rumplestiltskin met Killian’s eyes. His body was humming with Mirana’s kiss, her closeness and yield. His mind ticked along with something rather more raw, presented by Killian’s rough exterior.

A little green-skinned witch seemed to have become his ally. Her green was a dusty-mossy color, a bit mottled, very unlike the hectic hyperbole of Zelena. Sometimes the little thing, a touch feral, went naked. Her hair was long and dark, a deep chestnut, and it shielded her. Sometimes she wore a simple, dark dress and striped stockings.

Of all Mirana’s clan, she seemed to have placed her stakes with him. It was she who led him to Mirana’s chambers while the spirit of the Hedge rode her, and now he understood the White Queen was not entirely chaste. He well understood a double meaning of Hedge Riding.

It was the little green witch who whispered to him now, close to his ear. _The pirate is so jealous. He can’t stand it._

Uncertain of himself, he said, “Come to my room, Killian. Perhaps we should talk.”

A smug look took over Killian’s face. Also, that rakehell curve of brow. Perhaps matters were to be out in the open, now. Rumplestiltskin considered the images that assaulted him of late, and felt hesitant. Gods, the pirate’s expression… a sleepiness of eyes and a pursing of lips, somehow all of it very suggestive.

“Talk?” the pirate said, voice low.

There was manipulation at work, oddly familiar, possibly from once owning Killian’s heart.

Hiding his uncertainty, Rumplestiltskin smirked. “Yes, _talk_ , pirate. Unless you’d prefer your suggestion that I put you over my knee. Take matters in hand.”

A ripple of heat seemed to shimmy its way through his body, then transfer to Killian. The pirate blushed, and was pretty. He delivered a smile which was utterly wicked. His eyes of troubled blue sparkled.

“Oh, fuck’s sake.” Rumplestiltskin muttered. He turned on his heel, and – another nagging sense of familiarity – he led the way. Docile, Killian followed.

 

 

Killian looked around Rumplestiltskin’s room, much as he looked around Marmoreal, generally. He looked as one who lacks direction, reference. A curious tourist.

Everywhere in Mirana’s castle, there seemed to be a theme of foliage, foliate people and creatures. Vine and branch, possibly antlers were carved into rough or polished stone. The same bramble appeared in paintings, it was woven into tapestries… it was in the needlepoint cushions of fancy chairs.

In Rumplestiltskin’s room, he was surprised by a murky, dark painting of a figure emerging from a forest or thicket. The figure was made of the elements in which it lived, and it sported a very erect, foliate phallus. A milky glow in the dark canvas, the phallus leaked some sort of sap or nectar… it made pale flowers on the ground.

The painting was large, nearly as tall as Killian, and he reached out to touch the phallus’ tip. The texture of the paint was rough, coated in a heavy varnish.

“Pervert.” Rumplestiltskin said.

“Aye. But it seems a strange choice for your delicate daisy, out there.” He referred to Mirana in a vague, uncomfortable way. She was different from most women he’d known. Certainly, different from himself. On top of which, she did not seem likely to swoon from the effect of his dashingness.

Behind him, Rumplestiltskin said, “She’ll surprise you, pirate. She sweet, but she’s… dark.”

Well. La-de-da. Killian turned to face Rumplestiltskin and said, “So, you’ve met the Dark One’s match, then. Is that it? What’s it like when you fuck, mate? Do demons appear? Do you raise the dead? Wraith-howls emerge from the fireplace and pictures fall off the walls?”

Smiling in a genuine way, Rumplestiltskin shrugged. He seemed to consider Killian’s words in a pleasant way, pondering. The deviant. Who was the pervert, now? He said, “I’ve no idea what it would be like, dearie.”

Killian wasn’t surprised; the butterfly had seemed quite overwhelmed with her wee Rumple-kiss. The butterfly had flown. Still… he calculated time. He’d have been much more impatient about making his conquest.

Not knowing what else to do with himself, still feeling quite the fool, Killian launched into his butterfly routine. He tip-toed and minced about, playing at a dancer’s hands. He gazed afar with an urchin’s wistful awareness and certainty of death.

It broke the tension a little. Rumplestiltskin snorted, shaking his head. Killian ended his dainty turn-about by tripping over his own heavy boots and landing with an ungainly _plop_ in Rumplestiltskin’s lap. He blushed, feeling sheepish. The Imp would never believe it was an accident. He felt childish, cradled both by the Imp and by the large chair in which he sat.

“Such an impulsive and surly lad.” Rumplestiltskin tsked, but he made no move to dislodge Killian.

“I just can’t get over it.” Killian said. “I know you said it’s a… device. To separate her from…”

Letting his gaze fall into a long, suggestive sweep over Killian’s form, Rumplestiltskin supplied, “The _filthy_ masses.”

“Aye. But it looks so unhinged. Every time I see her, I don’t know what to think. It figures you’d get a crush on a lass who looks like a dancing cadaver.”

“Oh, Killian.” Rumplestiltskin heaved a deep sigh.

Oddly softened, Killian murmured, “Aye?”

“Do shut up.”

For a moment, Killian stared down at his lap. His head was awhirl, in flat disbelief that he sat on the Dark One’s lap, like a boy so hopeful, he didn’t realize the Santa Claus costume was worn by the child-collecting Devil. He was in disbelief that the Imp seemed rather accepting of the situation. He thought he should get up, save face, if possible. He should snarl some retort, a barbed thing, business as usual.

Instead, he looked up, meeting the Imp’s eyes. “Shut me up, then.” He suggested.

“Oh, aye? Do you need something to gag your mouth, dearie?”

 

 

Gods. The ease with which he could drift into dirtiness with Killian. It had stolen over him with Mirana, and he felt a desperate need to shut it down, to protect her from himself. He felt it with Killian, and wanted to sink his teeth into it.

There had been something like sweet attrition at play ever since the pirate freed him. A wearing down… a tease and a pause to wonder. It felt like the tease was over. Killian held his gaze and the little green witch cooed; she loved to look at Killian.

Rumplestiltskin brought his hand to Killian’s face. Hot fingers cupped Killian’s jaw and sprawled over his shadowed cheek. His thumb slid inside Killian’s mouth, past the willing parting of his lips.

He felt himself go rock-hard as Killian’s lips closed around him. The blue of his eyes was so intense, and he gazed at Rumplestiltskin as his head made a slow nod, his mouth sucked. Killian purred and Rumplestiltskin gasped, hips shifting beneath Killian’s bum.

It went on for a few hushed moments… time slowed. Rumplestiltskin felt himself flush; a rush of both pleasure and a sharp, deep ache, a pulse lit his chest and lower belly. His free hand rose, and he found himself lightly slapping Killian’s face. It shocked him, his own action and the effect it had on Killian. The pirate’s eyes fluttered closed, then opened again, drugged. His tongue was a silky, soft thing against Rumplestiltskin’s thumb. His cheeks hollowed. Breath huffed from his nose, a soft moan in his throat.

“Do you like that, dearie?” Rumplestiltskin asked, giving another light slap. It was less to physically hurt the pirate than it was to watch him color, to watch him accept it. Killian moaned again in response, and Rumplestiltskin moved his hand to caress the working of Killian’s jaw, then to encircle his throat. Kilian's eyes grew ever more open, wanton with the handling.

What followed left Rumplestiltskin feeling torn. Embarrassed. With Killian in a squirm on his lap, he felt he wronged Mirana. And yet, with the little witch whispering to him Killian’s secret thoughts, he also felt that he might have wronged Killian. Both connections seemed tenuous, uncertain… but intense.

Blood overrode brain, and it felt good. It always felt good to stop thinking and _give in_ , to let feeling work over and through him. It was surrender, being taken. It was not unlike giving himself to the Dark One.

With Killian, that give, the rush had always come from violence. At one time the mere sight of the pirate made the clever ticking of Rumplestiltskin’s mind shut down. Blood pounding, he’d let loose with anger. His control as Mr. Gold was a complete charade… as the frequent destruction and magical reconstruction of his shop could evidence. He’d relished losing control with Killian. It was a feeling he’d welcomed and nurtured when he was first under the Dark One’s curse, taking an easy vengeance wherever he wished, body and spirit singing with power.

This was different. The impulse was weirdly similar to violence, but the _give_ was all pleasure. It was too overwhelming to allow for moments of glee or gloating… he could hardly lord over Killian while he so greedily sought his own pleasure.

In a desire to _see_ , to watch Killian and to _feel_ , he also sought Killian’s pleasure. In a mad rush of kissing, a shock to the system that was hot breath and urgent tongues, a burning and then melting of nerves, they wound up on the floor.

Later, Rumplestiltskin felt ridiculous. Laughable. He hoped Thelma wasn’t privy to all he’d done, to all that was done to him. He hoped the Hedge was oblivious, Mirana ignorant. Although… how could she remain ignorant? Her little witches were studiously attentive, occasionally providing narration and commentary…. Constructive criticism? It was relentlessly distracting, although he was well pleased they unanimously agreed his cock had redeemed itself from its drunken state. Their enthusiasm was heartening, but Rumplestiltskin entertained very little hope that they would keep news of his dalliance with Killian from their Queen.

He was on his back, trousers around his ankles, legs frogged apart and shirt rucked-up. At least the wee witches did not come complete with cameras or tiny cell phones. There was little dignity in the coupling. Above him, Killian was in a similar state. He’d managed to shed his boots and trousers, but still wore both shirt and waistcoat. Flesh and blood demanded; it was only the essentials they’d dealt with, cast off. They sucked one another, messy with moans and obscenely wet slurping sounds. Their hips rocked, feeding into each other’s mouths.

Rumplestiltskin’s hands roamed over the taut muscle of Killian’s thighs. He grasped at hips, then a lush curve of bum. He struggled to keep a little control, to relax and not gag as Killian’s cock, hot and needy, made a steady invasion of his mouth. His body, his mind sang with the feeling of Killian’s mouth; hot, wet… an insistent, voluptuous suckle. Heat simmered along his spine each time Killian moaned.

They rolled, shifting positions, and Rumplestiltskin toed off his shoes and kicked away this trousers with impatience. He fucked Killian’s mouth, only a little conscious of not being too rough. Even as he tried to restrain himself, he felt Killian’s hand at his hip, pulling him down. Below him, Killian’s legs yawned wide apart, the sculpture of his feet braced to the floor.

To Rumplestiltskin, genitals were secret, animal parts on all people, but it seemed even more animal to be faced with the feral spread of Killian’s legs. Killian was wolfish and unapologetic. It got under his skin… the long, reddened stretch of overheated cock, fulsome balls… it put a hollow growl in his belly, and he rolled them over again. He wanted all of that warmth, heat; parts muscled and parts soft, furred, parts urgent with blood; he wanted them _over_ him, in his face. A wolf-dangle of heat, moving into him.

His arms locked around the small of Killian’s back as he briefly let go of the cock, a moan in his throat. Killian, for being one-handed, seemed no less ardent in his explorations. His hand cupped Rumplestiltskin’s balls; it stroked his cock and squeezed at the back of his thigh, the under-curve of his bum. A shock, a thrill, his fingers played lightly at Rumplestiltskin’s perineum, a whisper of touch that woke a chorus of nerve-endings and made his hips flex in helpless need.

He took Killian in his mouth again, his hands stroking over Killian’s long back, though the heat beneath his clothes. He played as Killian did, feeling over heavy balls, ticking around a willing hole. He could hardly believe he did such acts, that he was driven to do so.

Bodily, desperately he wanted the pirate. His blood surged at Killian’s moan, at the slippery feel and saline taste of pre-come on his tongue. His jaw was stretched and sore, his lips felt swollen and he was drowning in the scent of sex… a bordello mix of sugar and musk, personal to Killian. Wolfish fur and the mild bitterness of pre-come that bullied into his senses and squeezed his insides.

He didn’t have much of a sense of what it was to be invaded, penetrated, unless one counted spirit; possession by a demon. But bodily, to be forcefully thrust into, to feel little control over the eroticism that washed over him; it was narcotic.

He came first, which surprised him. With women, he’d learned to hold out, to have self-discipline. He tried to make them writhe with need, to come for his slow, wicked delight before he allowed himself release.

What was happening with Killian was too much… too much to process, too startling and in too many ways. His body and mind were rocked and overtaken, and there was no sense of holding back.

Killian slid a saliva-slick finger inside of him, and it was that quick. It took nothing, barely a thrust or two, and Rumplestiltskin felt his insides turn to steel. His hole gripped the transgression of the long finger, his balls went impossibly tight and he lost all vision. He felt himself empty, his insides contracting, pumping into Killian’s mouth. His growled, guttural moan was met with whimpering sounds from Killian’s throat, his chest.

It was messy. Sloppy. His hips went rigid, heels digging into the floor, toes flexed. Killian’s lips suckled, his head bobbed; he drooled both saliva and come. His cock, freed from Rumplestiltskin’s wide-open mouth, was long, wet and shiny. It was angry with swollen veins and angled up against his belly, bouncing with his accelerated pulse. Rumplestiltskin watched it, his vision hazed with a swimming red.

Sitting up, Killian turned around. He faced Rumplestiltskin, straddling him. The meeting of eyes, reasserting who they were… it was an arresting, sobering thing. They stared at one another, breathing hard, then Killian pressed the head of his fevered cock to Rumplestiltskin’s lips. He stroked, his hand quickly becoming a blur.

Surprised to be so obliging, Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth. He played his tongue against the cleft, the head swollen like ripe fruit… the skin of Killian’s cock was soft where the head touched his lips. It was baby skin, apricot-soft. The leak of pre-come was desperate, as was the working of Killian’s hand. His body braced heavily on one rigid arm, hook pressed to the floor.

Rumplestiltskin slid his hands up Killian’s thighs, under the shirt and then around to his arse. He pulled Killian further into his mouth, and – with a shuddering gasp – Killian spurted into him.

It was a strange taste. For all of the animal heat, the musk and sex of it all, the taste was oddly cool, peppery. Rumplestiltskin would swear he tasted radishes or watercress. As Killian softened, he sucked the cock fully into his mouth. He milked it, nursing out all that he could, relishing the helpless little mewls that came from Killian’s throat, the tremble in his belly, the big muscles of his thighs.

Even on top, he was a kitten.

 

 

 


	22. Darker, Dearie

Killian woke in darkness, and for a moment was utterly lost. The darkness yawned… he had an uneasy feeling of things moving about, creatures or spirits or some such. He felt just a little as though he slept on his ship, above deck, the sky an endless expanse above. Darkness whispered over his skin like secret, small touches; the unseen things that lived where sky met water.

He lay on a soft, warm bed with his lover.

Gods, it was a weird thought. It couldn’t be denied, however; it was a little late for a take-back. He lay on his belly, arms hugged to his pillow. Rumplestiltskin lay partly over him, one leg thrown over and a hand in his hair, warm at the base of his skull, his neck.

As if from there, where Rumplestiltskin’s hand cupped his head, Killian felt as though he heard a soft voice. A woman’s voice. Like a lullaby, it called, _Kitten_.

A little path of tingling meandered, lazy and up to no good, down Killian’s spine. Reflexively, one buttock clenched. Rumplestiltskin shifted in sleep, a nuzzle of warm, soft animal parts to his hip, a brief pressure at Killian’s skull before the hand relaxed again.

Bloody hell. Was he going to start hearing voices, now?

_Kitten_ , the voice called again, and he felt like he had to get up. The heaviness that took his body after sex (with his lover) was abruptly gone. The half-awake, the in-between… the feeling of rocking on water… all gone.

Marmoreal, a mineral fortress of marble and rough stone, flagstones and raw crystal was wakeful. Killian squirmed his way from beneath Rumplestiltskin, who made soft sounds of protest but did not wake. His breathing was deep, even… it contemplated a hushed snore.

Oh, he didn’t want to get up. The relief of all that had happened with Rumplestiltskin was profound. The relief of touching, kissing… establishing a certain belonging, propriety. Getting the unspoken out into the open.

 Before Zelena, before his own thoughts, feelings were fully formed to himself, Killian had tried to sort it out with, of all people, Emma. A mistake, given the combination of disbelief and comedy that danced in her green eyes. But he’d felt so confused, so desperate. Who else could he tell?

_I think I want… I don’t know. Maybe… I fancy Gold_?

“Seriously?” she’d asked.

“Aye.” And he’d fidgeted, fingering his hook and squirming in his seat, blushing and filled with regret upon the instant.

“How…? _How_?”

He’d shrugged. If only he knew. It had snuck up on him, a stealthy serpent, noticed too late.

“Haven’t you spent some insane number of years plotting revenge on him? Over a woman?”

“Aye. His wife. And this.” He held up his hook. As if the world didn’t know.

“And… he’s _Gold_.” Emma had shuddered a bit, showing her distaste. Killian had seen it before, her disinclination to stand near Rumplestiltskin, to touch him. He recognized the feeling as one he’d once had, himself. She tensed, her face hardening when Henry made an easy transition to calling Gold ‘Grampa’, tripping into his shop with no more caution than entering Granny’s.

 “He’s old.” Emma added.

Gold. Old. Old Gold. Needlessly, Killian said, “Not really. Or, well. We’re both old. We’ve both lived longer than our share. But he’s a man in his… prime.”

Gods, if she’d known. The _thoughts_ he’d had, so unruly. The man who took his heart, took him in hand.

She’d seen his longing and heard the word, ‘prime’, and it was clear these things turned her stomach. In case it was unclear, she pretended to retch a bit. Killian was pretty sure she was pretending. Gold was befouled. She wrinkled her nose.

“It seems, um, a little unhealthy to me, Killian. Like… maybe what was an unhealthy need for vengeance has twisted into… an unhealthy codependency?”

He’d nodded, accepting her judgment. But what the devil was codependency? Whatever. He’d nurtured no illusions that he was drawn to something _healthy_. He wouldn’t necessarily describe himself as _well_.

But he couldn’t let it go, it nagged at him. Emma suggested that perhaps he just needed something; a reason. He was centuries old and lacked purpose. When revenge sort of fizzled in the reality of Rumplestiltskin as Gold, a man with family ties to Emma who sometimes showed a deep regret in his hooded eyes, Killian was left dangling. Nothing beneath, no foundation.

How the fuck did the vampires and what-not do it? Just keep going, whether relevant to the world or not. Maybe alone, family and friends all gone.

Emma, her intelligent brain buzzing, told him he’d probably glommed on to Gold as something familiar… the one element in Storybrooke he knew from his own long life. The one person who could remember back as far as himself.

“He’s the devil you know.” Emma said.

And, aye. That he was.

Even so, if it was all psychology and faulty chemistry, it was bloody convincing. Need, desire could flare into physical pain, felt in his body. It gnawed, a hunger, just as described by vampires. He could find nothing to satisfy it.

When Zelena made her move, the hurt transformed into quick action. How it had bothered him that she’d locked Rumplestiltskin up; locked his power down. He hadn’t been able to rest, to breathe properly until he’d freed the Imp. Rumplestiltskin’s captivity made him restless, as if it was himself behind bars.

Was it possible Rumplestiltskin had kept some little morsel of his heart? Was he connected, still?

 

 

These thoughts followed him as he made himself leave the bed, the room. Feeling about in the dark, he found trousers. They weren’t his. He put them on, anyway, feeling an odd thrill. His possessiveness, and the ways it surfaced, continued to surprise him.

Earlier, before falling into bed, (he replayed the novelty of turning down the bedclothes, watching Rumplestiltskin on the opposite side of the bed. Domestic, sleepy, naked…), he’d brushed his teeth. Rumplestiltskin had looked appalled.

“You’re using my toothbrush.”

Rinse, swish, spit. Wiping his arm over his mouth, Killian had made eyes of; Yup.

“So it would appear. There’s not another, mate.”

“But… _ugh_.”

“Fuck’s sake. You just had my cock in your mouth. What can it matter?”

It had been rather pleasing to see Rumplestiltskin’s eyes sober, his cheeks color. He’d eventually shrugged, as if he’d decided, no – it didn’t matter. And Killian had felt the little thrill.

Rumplestiltskin’s trousers weren’t quite long enough in the leg, and were a little too big in the waist. One compensated for the other so that the loose trousers, a very different feeling for Killian, rode low on his hips and almost puddled at his feet. He was careful as he padded out of the bedroom… pulled by the voice that was in his head, yet seemed to have direction.

He was being pulled _down_.

And so down he went, by feel and by inner voice. The inner voice had begun to playfully call _; here, kitty-kitty._ It made Killian stop a moment, fingertips to the cold wall. A hot blush rose to his face, hidden by the night. Rumplestiltskin had used that same playful call, his voice curling in on itself in a soft rasp. _Here, kitty-kitty_. He’d said it, a tease, and Killian had crawled up the bed, a good pet.

He came upon a torch in a wall sconce, burning low. He apprehended it, lighting the path he followed with a growing certainty. When he came to a stairwell of heavily carved stone, spiraling downward into ever more darkness, he knew he was in the right place.

Nevertheless, he muttered, “What the devil?”

Why did he know it was the right place? What beckoned and beguiled? Why in the worlds was he out and about, half-naked and weaponless? He’d even left his hook on Rumplestiltskin’s bedside table… without it, he felt truly naked.

Approaching an underground lake, he realized he must be in the lair of the famed mermaid. He’d avoided visiting her… his experiences with water-women had left him wary. Fickle, hungry and dangerous… alluring, secretive women who thrilled to storms at sea, to the massive swell and heartbeat of the ocean.

Under a craggy, uneven ceiling that glittered and shone with quartz and mica, Killian came upon Bea. She was almost more surprising than the call, the lake. Her hair was done up in pink, fuzzy curlers and a kerchief, and she wore a tartan robe over a frilly-necked gown. She was pouring tea for two.

“Ah. ‘Tis himself.” She suppressed a yawn. Then, a touch more wakeful, her eyes roamed over Killian, head to toe. The air seemed to hover. “Goodness.” She concluded.

Killian glanced about, speechless and uncertain. Perhaps he dreamed.

“Come have a cuppa, dearie.” Bea said, and the endearment sent a fresh shock through him.

Padding up to her cozy, lakeside arrangement, he leaned his torch to a crag. He asked, “Were you calling me?”

“Not I, prettiness. She, in the lake. She’s been wanting to get a look at you.”

Killian’s blood took a sudden chill; it couldn’t be good that a mermaid knew about him. Bea tsked. She handed Killian a cup of tea as he settled. Her teapot was covered by a knitted cozy of sky blue and butter yellow.

Out of nowhere, Killian’s mind felt utterly wistful. It seemed not his own doing. He was visited by something he could only identify as homesickness, an ache that filled his chest. Tension crept into his belly. He was thrown back to waking in Rumplestiltskin’s bed, fooled for a moment into thinking he was at sea, body attuned to its motions.

“Not to fret, dearie.” Bea said. “She’s not a siren, or the like. You must have seen all sorts in your day. Thelma’s a good girl, and she carries a burden of sight.”

“That’s so, aye?”

“It ‘tis.”

And then – there she was. More silent than owls or serpents, she barely caused a ripple. Thelma emerged from dark, still water with the ease of a hot knife sliding into butter. The lake was a reflection, a mirror of the far-off ceiling. It seemed to twinkle with stars.

Bea said, “Aren’t you a pretty thing? Too bad about the hand.”

It took Killian a moment to understand that – one – she was speaking to him. And – two – the mermaid was speaking through her. The mermaid’s speech was chimes and wordless song, soft beneath Bea’s voice. Her bared breasts, tantalizing in the play of water, shadow and light, rose and fell with her breath. She seemed taken by a great passion… her eyes, gem-like and shocking, blazed.

When he could tear his eyes away, he looked to Bea. Her eyes were clouded, smoky. She regarded him steadily, in a manner that differed from her earlier appraisal.

“He took it.” she said. “The man you’ve given yourself to. He took your hand.”

Killian wasn’t able to answer. Truth was hard; to an extent, he’d put it away. How could he manage in the knowledge of it?

Mutilation. A sickening, horrifying revelation of severance, endings. A termination of bone and tendon, things once taken for granted, now and forever gone. How could he reconcile it with wanting Rumplestiltskin to transgress his body? As if he’d said, _well, you have the hand. You’ve held the heart. You may as well take the rest._

And it turned out that Rumplestiltskin’s reply was, _don’t mind if I do, dearie_. Killian had made a meal of himself.

The thoughts were edgy and dark. They felt like his, yet touched by something _other_. The mermaid was without boundaries, and she poked around inside him as if he were a house. She opened drawers and closets, she peered beneath beds and behind the pictures on the walls. Her feelings mingled with his and caused a messy little chaos of confusion.

Her affinity for the moving, dark depths of water filled Killian up and intensified the ache he felt. His eyes were glued to Thelma, to an awful beauty that was both angelic and demonic, and the experience was not pleasant. It was invasive and harsh, her presence within him alien.

“Why do you love him?” Bea asked, while Thelma spoke with the voice of the elements.

_Did_ he? Killian shook his head, a doggy sort of shrug. His throat closed with… anger. Sorrow. Rage. He didn’t want to feel those things; he’d felt them for far too long. The feelings were a threat to everything he wanted, now. Everything he needed.

The two females who looked upon him with strange eyes seemed to point out that the anger was _right there_. Right beneath a surface which barely needed to be scratched to unearth it.

 

 

 


	23. Telenovela

Jefferson made a steady tap-tap-tapping of his forefinger to the tip of Victor’s nose, finely shaped thing that it was, centered in a finely shaped face. Half-asleep, Victor swatted at him. One had to be cautious… from a deep sleep, Victor could come up, swinging.

Jefferson was undeterred. He liked to pester and to poke. Grinning, he said, “What’s the story, morning glory?” Tap-tap-tap.

Victor groaned, very nearly a growl. Jefferson was full of such sayings, usually delivered as parting gifts before he hopped into a hat-gone-supernova. Victor imagined these phrases had been cultivated for Grace.

Plucking one from the phraseology oubliette in his unruly head, Jefferson flung back the bedclothes and exclaimed. “Chop-chop, lollipop!”

Victor rolled to his side, curling up. He fantasized he was a roly-poly or an armadillo, curled up tight and covered in armor.

“Wakey, wakey, little snakey.” Jefferson’s hand, playful and not especially sexual, reached in vain for the soft package Victor shielded, hand tucked between his legs.

Not opening his eyes, he said, “Only people who don’t work act like this in the morning.”

“Oh, please.” Jefferson gave up on anything snakey and slapped Victor’s white butt. “Like you work. You seem to be on permanent vacation.”

Well, yes. There was some truth to this.

Jefferson changed tactics, his hands warm on Victor’s body. He placed small kisses along Victor’s jaw, moving in a tease to his neck, his ear. He knew Victor’s weak spots; he’d mapped them.

“Stop it. Wanton hussy.” Victor purred.

“Make me.”

Jefferson was rather determinedly a bottom. The first time Victor had, out of curiosity, tried to flip the dynamic, Jefferson looked as if he had stage fright. Victor found it interesting and wondered what Jefferson had been like with his wife.

… Nevertheless, Jefferson was a _pushy_ bottom. His little taunt poked at Victor, as it was meant to. Victor uncurled and rolled them over, suddenly alert and on top of Jefferson. There was a modified wrestle, Jefferson offering a mockery of resistance. When his hands were pinned over his head, he grinned up at Victor.

“Oh, Mable. This is most irregular.”

“As if, Eunice.”

Victor found he was less devotedly a top than Jefferson was a bottom, but he still took to it rather well, in his own way. In truth, his career with women had left him ill-prepared for Jefferson.

He was a walking stereotype, he’d realized. A cartoon and a cliché.

In his younger days, he’d fallen in love with a woman he found to be beautiful and perfect, a goddess. He’d fallen hard, but it was almost as if he’d invented her. She was unattainable, and he’d failed to attain her.

He’d tried, however, and his very young heart, ignorant and largely occupied with science and pleasing his father, had been crushed to bloody smithereens. Untried ego ripped to shreds. Simultaneously, he experienced a spectacular, public failure in his work and disappointed his father to the point of being disowned.

Good times.

At that point he’d set aside all notions of love, endeavoring to be cold, practical and focused. With age, he found his apparent disinterest was like catnip to a certain sort of woman… this sort gravitated to him, as if his brain sent out a lure, a commercial advertising his innate ability to feed their neurosis.

As they fed his. The cold feeling inside him grew, so that he used and discarded women with little thought. He put precious little effort into it. They found him, and he let them do the heavy lifting.

He was a schmuck, that was what. It was a startling realization. He’d been trying to be a good man, a notable man who erased from the world the pain and loss of death, hurts he still carried, unable to let them go. To be reasonable.

The goal had eventually become trivialized, and the larger truth was that he was a schmuck. With daddy issues.

Possibly, Jefferson was saving him from a life of schmuckdom. Pest that he was, he’d prodded and bothered and poked fun until Victor realized… there was a connection. He had, what were those things? _Feelings_? That atrophied lump in his chest that he recognized as being so vital to others began to crank into a delayed, painful liveliness. It yearned to the spoiled, rich boy in the mansion on the hill. It freaked him out in no small measure.

 

 

 

There was a difficult-to-pin-down area of common ground. It happened in private moments when they learned one another. It happened publicly when they observed the world and commented to each other.

But when it came to personality, to their approach to the world, they were different. Jefferson seemed to like _everyone_. How was it possible, Victor wondered? He knew things about Jefferson, now. He knew the rich boy on the hill was so much costume.. he’d sat up, late nights, drinking coffee and steadfastly remaining calm while Jefferson paced and ranted, overcome with mania.

More startling, even frightening was seeing Jefferson disassociate. His big eyes, a dark, shadowed blue, just emptied. Autonomous body function continued, machine-like.

There were issues, sorrows, neurological backfires, and yet Jefferson’s outlook, most of the time, was unbelievably sunny. He wasn’t shy, he mixed and mingled and remembered people’s names. He remembered things about people, random and unfathomable to Victor; who liked what drink, or book or obscure hobby; who had children, the kids’ names and what they were up to.

These were things that not only escaped Victor, but he actively shielded himself from them. _People_. They were everywhere, like lice. Like germs and bacteria. It was difficult to maintain a stance of serving humanity when one found it so loathsome.

It turned out, surprise! he was something of a pessimist. A realist, he told Jefferson. Watching Jefferson, he tried to change, to alter his view. Still, pessimism – or realism – was his basic nature.

Meanwhile, Jefferson’s innate nature was optimism. It had been damaged, rather badly, by the turn of life, and yet it was still in him, deeply rooted. He was a glass-half-full man, he saw opportunity everywhere. He actually _enjoyed_ people. He was always curious about them.

This, to Victor, who had really only developed a liking for Jefferson and Mirana, was completely mysterious.

 

 

Jefferson watched Killian and Rumplestiltskin with no small amount of curiosity.

… What was _that_ like? It _had_ to be weird. And how did Mirana fit in? Poor little zombie-girl.

His mind played with it, shifting and looping like a cat’s cradle. Meanwhile, the men in black came level with himself and Victor. Killian and Victor experienced a peculiar bristling, an instinctive clashing of energies. It was as puzzling to Jefferson as whatever was going on between Killian and Rumplestiltskin.

Killian, face in a dark brood, greeted, “Necromancer.”

Jefferson felt an internal _pft_ ; so much posturing. Then he smiled when Victor, as he so often did, returned, “Black Bart.”

 

 

 

Rumplestiltskin was seated beside Mirana at the breakfast table. Killian was further down the table. Jefferson could not stop looking at all of them… he tried not to stare.

In Storybrooke, he was hooked on Spanish telenovelas. He had no idea what anyone was saying, but people’s eyes blazed. The actors gesticulated with almost obscene drama, and stories spilled into his head. (Which he later poured into Victor, following him about with eyes and hands in full, dramatic emoting, all the while saying, “Blah-blah-blah-BLAH. BLAH!”)

There was a similar feeling, watching the trio. Each time Mirana’s fluttery hands reached the vicinity of her shoulders, turning on her wrists, beckoning to things unseen, Killian reacted. He seemed to take offense. His chin jutted to Rumplestiltskin, both brows in a quick rise and fall, as if he jabbed an accusatory finger. Blah-BLAH.

Clearly, the Dark One noticed and seemed to be in a tad of discomfort. The Dark One, in the midst of domestic squabbles, so odd. He gamely ignored it and remained in quiet conversation with Mirana, accustomed to his place at her side. He took one of her anxious hands and kissed its heel, pressing her fingers to his face.

Killian actually… _barked_. A sudden, sharp little laugh. Jefferson rested his chin on his fist, rapt.

Somewhat breaking the tension, a party of mice (who seemed to be on a permanent bender) scaled the tablecloth and started stumbling around. They wore semi-Edwardian finery, silk and velvet, rumpled and reeking of wine.

“You gonna eat that, old fellow?” One asked Jefferson, pointing to a crumb of sharp cheese.

Shaking his head, Jefferson pushed the crumb closer to the mouse, who hiccupped.  He said, “Oh, cheers! Ta.”

Another mouse complained, “My Queen, could your kitchen not serve mimosas or bloody Marys or something? Must we break our fast so _wholesomely_?”

Leaning back in his seat, Killian stared. Victor had once been much the same, later bitching to Jefferson about a dinner table overrun with inebriated, ill-mannered vermin.

“’Allo.” A mouse said to Killian, drunk and in passing.

“Aye, mate.” Killian grumbled.

Less articulate or well-dressed animals roamed about on the floor; nudists and anarchists, zealots devoted to the Hedge. A rabbit tongue, taking a taste of Jefferson’s ankle, felt eerily human. (Jefferson was dressed to the nines, yet barefoot. If Mirana could do it, he thought, so could he).

A few birds hopped and chattered, and Bethany – the white crow – perched on the back of Mirana’s chair. It was a bizarre place, to be sure. To Jefferson, it felt pleasantly chaotic.

Mirana rose and Jefferson noted her blush, her downcast eyes. So, she wasn’t immune to Rumplestiltskin’s attention or Killian’s ire. “Please excuse me.” She said, graceful and formal and nothing like the woman he’d come to know in private. That woman snickered at Victor’s dirty jokes. She’d once opened her mouth to say something to Jefferson, and promptly belched. She’d become instantly mortified, both hands slapped over her mouth in horror, but then dissolved into snorting giggles that couldn’t be stopped.

Killian stared at her as if transfixed by a Gorgon, turning to stone. His eyes met Rumplestiltskin’s as she walked away, Bethany-crow in an odd swagger at her feet. Rumplestiltskin stared back, a look so reminiscent of the Dark One, Jefferson shivered.

“Daddy’s _pissed_.” He murmured softly to Victor. “I think he might lose his shit.”

Uninterested in the love triangle, Victor asked, “Can you pass the butter?”

Jefferson obliged, handing over a shallow, dark green, cut-crystal dish. The cake of butter, molded into a flower motif, was riddled with tiny hand-prints. The mice liked to get into the butter.

“Ah, spank you.” Victor said.

 

 

 

In Rumplestiltskin’s room, Killian paced. His hook-arm was awkward, held out as if he might shake hands. Or break into a robot dance. His right fist clenched and unclenched, a mate to his jaw.

“Oh, settle down.” Rumplestiltskin said. He sat on the edge of his bed, watching.

Eyes flashing, Killian asked, “What is it that you bloody _want_ , mate? You can’t have… _everything_.”

“Pity.”

Killian stood still a moment, looking at Rumplestiltskin.

“It’s what I want.” Rumplestiltskin shrugged.

“… Everything?”

“Aye.”

“Well, that’s… “ Killian faltered. The nerve. The Imp stared at him, a frank, open gaze. With a throaty, frustrated sound, Killian growled, “ _No_.” He resumed pacing.

 

 

 


	24. A Fungus Among Us

Mirana sat with Victor in her chapel of green. The wee witches were driving her bonkers.

_You always run away!_

_Gods, you’re trampling on our last, frayed nerve._

_Piss or get off the pot, missy_!

Heaving a deep sigh, Mirana whispered, “Shut. Up.”

Victor looked very surprised; his chin lifted and his light eyes looked at her from their corners, birdlike.

“Not you.” She said. What a mess.

Pointedly, Victor looked around. They were very much alone, not even Bethany or the odd skull for company. Mirana sighed again, then rapped her knuckles against her head.

“It’s noisy in here.”

“I hear ya. Want to talk about it?”

No, she did not. Where would she even begin? Her confusion was vast, unqueenly and subject to ridicule by small witches. She had no idea what to make of Killian Jones. Or, truly, Rumplestiltskin.

Shaking her head, she said, “I want to go over an idea for a spell.”

“Right on, sister. But isn’t Rumplestiltskin the better man for that?”

Victor wasn’t wrong, but Rumplestiltskin was distracted. That, in and of itself, was somewhat alarming.

_You should fuck him. That’ll give him focus_.

Her eyes closed for a moment. She’d about had it with her diminutive companions. She didn’t readily apply the work ‘fuck’ to herself; it was an uncomfortable fit. And yet, yes, she wanted exactly that from Rumplestiltskin. And the fickle, little traitors… Hadn’t they been rooting for Killian?

“More noise?” Victor asked.

Mirana opened her eyes to see concern, sympathy in his. His brows pushed up in the center. He was likely making a physician’s assessment, his diagnostic skills honed on Jefferson.

She took a deep breath, puffing out her cheeks on the exhale. With a brilliant smile, a deliberate attempt to move on, she said, “This spell is also science, so you may be the better man, Victor.”

With a modest hand splayed to his chest, Victor confessed, “I’ve often thought so.”

 

 

 

It sounded simple in the telling. Mushrooms, Mirana said, were communicators. They were also parasites and occupying forces, even when all appeared peaceful and there was no sign of their invasion.

They took over the insides of trees, their roots, and an enormous network formed underground, a great web. And so, communication took place from tree to tree, sometimes from forest to forest. In this way, trees were warned of oncoming diseases or pests, and could arm themselves. What might appear to be altruism on the part of the fungus was really an action meant to insure its own survival.

“But the key thing to note,” Mirana said, “Is the communication, the connectedness. I’ve made use of mushrooms in smaller spells because of this trait, but – with the assistance of the Hedge – I think it could work in a great spell, one that crosses worlds.”

It was simple… to Victor it was too simple, Crayons and Elmer’s glue simple. He saw the science behind her theory, but had no concept of how to make such a thing function as magic. He had no real grasp of the Hedge.

“I’m sorry, Mirana.” He shook his head. “I kind of get it, but I think Rumple’s your man, after all. To me, it sounds like play, make-believe.”

A bit disappointed, Mirana said, “Such is often the case with magic. With spells.”

“Right. Literally tying a knot to bind. Blowing on a feather to, I don’t know… fly? I get the symbolism, but I don’t understand how it becomes a true action. There’s no math.”

Well, there _was_ math. But Mirana silently conceded that it was math utilized, as Victor said, in symbol. Numbers and languages, the individual symbols carrying a power that Victor wouldn’t see.

Resigned, she said, “Alright. I suppose I’ll need to discuss it with Rumplestiltskin.”

“Why don’t you want to do that?” Victor asked, curious.

Mirana felt a little belligerent. A little like she might stomp her foot or become flouncy. Possibly, she might cast a nasty, itchy and inconvenient spell on Killian Jones… something that might cause him to desire isolation. A strong drive to be alone with his misery.

She shrugged. “I’m not sure he’s very focused on working with me.”

“Of course he is. Storybooke is his cause, not yours.”

“Is it not yours?” Mirana asked, raising her eyes to meet Victor’s. Something in his tone set himself apart from Storybrooke, from the other world.

Shrugging as she had, Victor said, “I guess not. Not really. I don’t feel much of a tie to Storybrooke. But it’s Jefferson’s cause. He has ties, and that makes it my cause.”

This was true for Mirana, as well. She pet the soft cap of a mushroom, then the harder, more rubbery cap of another. These were things she understood. Why should she care for Storybrooke or its invading witch? She could picture none of it; it wasn’t hers.

But it was Rumplestiltskin’s, and because of this she endeavored to learn.

 

 

Mirana found Rumplestiltskin in her laboratory, looking at her ingredients. A Goblin in her pantry. He scribbled on paper and counted on his fingers. The math of magic.

Looking up, his eyes a bit far away, he said, “Hello, dearie.”

“Hello, Rumplestiltskin.”

Her voice was formal and cool, and it made him set his quill aside and face her more fully. Like Victor, his brows pushed up in the center.

Did all men do this, Mirana wondered? Was it a manipulation? To make oneself appear as a confused, possibly hurt hound puppy… all she wanted to do was soothe, to pet his chestnut-silver head.

_It’s alright, puppy_. She looked away, irritated.

“What is it, love?” Rumplestiltskin asked.

He bloody well knew. Surely, he did. He’d seen her nearly naked, he’d kissed her. While the pirate _watched_. But now he spoke a new body language with Killian Jones, whether or not he was aware of it. It was like Victor and Jefferson, but less comfortable.

“I don’t know how to talk to you.” Mirana said, her hands alight and fidgeting. She turned her head this way and that, looking at her laboratory. Looking everywhere but at Rumplestiltskin.

“Well. That’s distressing.” Rumplestiltskin said, his voice soft. “Is it because of Killian?”

A little shock, a thrill went through Mirana. Her eyes landed on Rumplestiltskin for a moment, then moved away again. She nodded.

“Are you…? Are you…?” She had no idea how to ask. She remembered seeing Victor and Jefferson kiss, feeling Jefferson’s feelings. It nearly overwhelmed her, again. Perhaps she would never cause such feelings in another.

“An item?” Rumplestiltskin provided. There was a dry sound to his voice, a self-depreciating sort of humor. But his eyes, when Mirana met them, were deep. Their dark, coppery-brown was rich, spilling over with warmth.

“ _Are_ you?” she sought clarification.

“Aye, dearie.”

A blush rose to her cheeks, her blood reacting for a number of reasons. First and foremost, she felt like a fool. “I thought…” she gasped, her breath too shallow.

What did she think? That he loved her? That he would abandon all he’d known before to remain at her side? Did she think she was the sort of woman who would marry? Who might waddle around with a pregnant belly, _expecting_?

She had expected, and wasn’t sure what it was she’d expected. She’d thought, foolishly, ignorantly, that Rumplestiltskin was hers. That she might be his.

Her witches were quiet. Even the tough, short-haired Amazons and the wily biddies stared, owlish. Mirana wanted to yell at them. Younger ones, lush and rosy, pressed the flats of their hands to their lower bellies. The action made Mirana wonder about herself.

They’d expected, too. A consort, a loyal guardian, a bun in every oven… it was difficult to know what was expected. They’d longed and lusted for Killian Jones, a darkly and devilishly handsome man, to rage upon their bodies and bring chaos to their spirits. But they’d expected Rumplestiltskin to hold Mirana’s hand, stilling it. They’d expected the reassurance of his magic, his kinship with her.

Rumplestiltskin looked pained. Mirana didn’t know how to continue on her present path without falling to pieces, so she changed course. Vivid, potted snapdragons on her table reached and snapped, feeling her distress. She pet them, then allowed their petal-mouths to suckle at her fingertips.

“I need your help with a spell.” She said, looking at snapdragons rather than Rumplestiltskin. Purple balloon flowers drifted by on a shifty breeze and Mirana thought, _wishes of far-away friends_. Who were they? Were they Rumplestiltskin’s people, his real life, away in Staorybrooke?

Rumplestiltskin would not follow her change of course. He stood, crossing the space between them. It invaded Mirana’s space… his presence felt too hot, making her vision waver.

“What did you think, Miri?”

“It doesn’t matter. Your witch, her spell… that’s what matters.”

“The one you ‘do not like’? The one you ‘will destroy’?” Rumplestiltskin held her eyes with his, though hers tried to look away. He gave a small smile.

“Yes.” In fact, she’d thought those things of all who’d wished him harm.

His smile grew more broad. “The one you will ‘reduce to ashes and darkness’?” He chuckled, and it worried at Mirana’s brow.

Did he think her warfare _cute_?

“Tell me, lovey. What did you think?”

Aggrieved, Mirana gasped, “Surely you know. I don’t care to be toyed with, Rumplestiltskin. I don’t care to amuse you with my childish ways. Let us go over the spell.”

“But you do amuse me, Mirana. With your childish ways. Your small witches amuse me, when they’re not pissing me off. They’re very quiet, today.”

“They thought…. Something, too.”

“Can they not still think it?” His voice was a purr.

That was unexpected. Mirana blushed all the more to think it, but it also seemed to lift a hurtful, little hook from her lungs. Her breath came easier.

“You mean… even though you and Killian Jones…”

The wee witches looked at one another, baffled. Mirana would never have the words… to her, Killian was a wolf. A biddy, hands on hips, said, “Look, Imp. Are you putting from the rough, or what?”

Both Mirana and Rumplestiltskin’s eyes rounded, startled. Rumplestiltskin burst into warm laughter.

Hand to his chest, he said, “Oh, Mirana, my dear. I do adore you.”

A feeling of pleasure rushed through Mirana, and she sought to slay it. Why should Rumplestiltskin control the movement of her blood with a simple statement? Confused, she turned her back on him, only to feel his body press close. His arms came around her. His chin dug into her shoulder.

“Your breathing is labored. Shall we divest you of the dreadful corset, again?”

“No!”

“Are you certain?” His hands moved up her abdomen, finding nothing of her body. With his knuckles, he knocked against the unyielding corset. “I seem to recall a charmingly bared bosom. A freedom of breath. And breast.”

“I told you, I don’t care to be toyed with.”

“Ah, but this isn’t play.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Indeed, not.”

Mirana’s head fell forward. “The _spell_ , Rumplestiltskin. Do you care for your home so little?”

For several moments he did not answer her. He held her, and it was his forehead rather than his chin that pressed to her shoulder. Mirana felt the struggle of her breath. She tried to calm herself, staring about.

Small witches pretended to read, knit or garden. They turned their backs, as if giving Mirana privacy. _You don’t fool me,_ Mirana thought; they were attuned.

Forehead still pressed to her shoulder, Rumplestiltskin said, “I care. I care for a great many things, of late. I care about freeing Storybrooke. I care very much about defeating Zelena. But I have cares here, too. I’ve gone rather native, dearie.”

Mirana’s heart made a painful little lurch. Her ribcage reacted, pinned by the corset. There was a red bird in her chest, a blue frog in her throat.

“And Killian Jones?”

“Aye. I care for him, too. But if he chooses to remain in Storybrooke, my wish is still to remain here.”

Oh, it was embarrassing. A sob that was choked and ungraceful welled up and _burped_ out. It was burped by the bird and nearly vomited by the frog. Mirana couldn’t even say what it was. Relief? More confusion? She covered her face with both hands, fighting a childhood desire to fling her skirt over her head and consider herself hidden. As her throat made startled, constricted sounds, her witches went ever more wide-eyed and then looked away. They stared at the ground, drawing in the dirt with their toes, embarrassed for her.

Holding her closer, Rumplestiltskin said, “There, there, love.”

Words formed in Mirana’s head, but she dare not speak while the frog was in residence. They were messy and unguarded words, both of adoration and scalding insinuation. Rumplestiltskin seemed to intuit them, and said, “I’m sorry I invaded your home, your life, and brought my own cares and woes into it. I’ve disturbed your peace… I’ve tried to court you, but also dallied. You must hate me.”

The word dug into Mirana. _Hate_. It made fresh tears form, and the blue frog squirmed, making her nauseous. She didn’t hate Rumplestiltskin. She didn’t even hate Killian, though his presence had become strange and hurtful. She shook her head, _no_ , stuck under the oversight of bird and frog.

 

 

 

The overwhelming feeling that was love-pain-anger-hope was finally mustered under control. The effort was almost as mighty as the spell Mirana contemplated… her witches helped her, redirecting her thoughts and energy back to magic, to the task at hand.

She explained her thoughts to Rumplestiltskin, who took to them far more readily than Victor. His eyes lit, he nodded. When he spoke, his hands were nearly as active as hers, his arms expansive.

“We’ll work the spell counter-clockwise,” Mirana said, “So that it moves backwards in time. We can undo what the witch has done, then you can defeat her, face-to-face.

“Ah, dearie! I see!”

Rumplestiltskin added his own notes to hers, and soon they sat close, heads together, calculating and listing ingredients.

“Should we try to tame the Jabberwocky to your assistance? Mirana asked. “I do have a saddle of sorts.”

Rumplestiltskin considered, but said, “No. I believe I can make do with Killian.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	25. Love Apples

An invitation arrived, via harried, multi-tasking rabbit, to a ball.

“A _ball_?” Jefferson read, incredulous. The card was embellished with vines and pumpkins, which put him somewhat in mind of another ball. “Where does that word come from? I mean, why do they call it a _ball_?”

Victor gave a dirty smile but didn’t have an answer. He took the card, fingers stroking over the embossed vegetation.  It was Braille-like; touch it, he must.

“Do you want to go?” Jefferson asked.

“Yeah, brother. I love the night life. I _got_ to boogie.”

Jefferson rolled his eyes. He glanced out of the high window, unsurprised by gathering storm clouds. Soon, Victor and Madam Zombie would be drawn like lemmings, spawning salmon and what-not, to the outdoors. A loose wind would play about them, and, for a time, Jefferson wouldn’t know Victor at all.

With a sigh, he said, “Whatever shall I wear?”

 

 

 

The dance was a tradition in Marmoreal, and now it was also a fond farewell celebration for the travelers. The year, though not as straightforward as one might expect, moved along. The sun-star ended its close flirtation with the land and began to grow distant. It wanted to brood and ponder, moody and off on its own.

As it turned its back, the air cooled. Shadows lengthened. A second harvest arrived, and many saved a share for the Hedge, or for whatever walked it. The dance would light the cold, dark night.

The tradition was one of honoring spirits, honoring the Hedge, but the practice was revelry and fun. People and animals came to the castle in the dead of night, and jack-o-lanterns lit the way. Jack-o-lantern mushrooms, like frilly, fleshy flowers in the day glowed an eerie, green glow at night. Their luminescence lit paths and invited ghosts and will-o-wisps.

Rumplestiltskin followed the lit path, his head swimming in the scents of bonfires, of wood-rot and  fungus, decaying leaves. Sharp evergreens permeated the crisp air. Overhead, a brilliance of stars made a river-path, flowing within a sea of smoky violet. It looked like an expression of his magic, on a grand scale.

Killian, ever the puppy, the kitten, followed, almost, but not quite at his side. It made Rumplestiltskin feel strange, ever trailing this dark crow-boy, his new shadow. What must people think, he wondered? He didn’t want to care; not about Killian Jones nor what others thought of them. In his Imp days, wielding power from his fortress in the Deadlands, he wouldn’t have cared.

It was hard to say if he would have made use of Killian, back then, but certainly he wouldn’t have cared what anyone thought. Let people spin what yarns they would; he was the master weaver, after all. All that mattered was power.

Now he found he couldn’t quite shake it off, the sense of being _seen_. His appearance of humanity, age, made him feel unpleasantly vulnerable. Trailing what appeared to be a virile youth, as if attached by an invisible leash, made him feel absurd.

Mirana’s presence added to the feeling. He didn’t want her to think him an old, foolish man. A lighthearted bit of amusement, a retired theater director or choreographer, a _cliché_.

A flurry of ibises marched past, their gait like somewhat more elegant chickens. They were of both a black and white variety. The white ibises glowed like ghosts, like Mirana. The black ibises were like phantoms in the night, melting into shadow. They wore bow-ties and gemstone necklaces. One said, “Pardon.” As it loped on by.

Killian’s sigh, not far from Rumplestiltskin’s ear, was heavy. “This place is insane.” He muttered.

Glancing back, Rumplestiltskin said. “Walk _with_ me, lad. You’re driving _me_ insane, always just beyond me peripherals.”

Wordless, Killian came up level. There was no ease to it… they didn’t link arms, as Victor and Jefferson often did. Rumplestiltskin could not fathom the notion of holding hands. But they were level, even. His shoulder brushed to Killian’s upper arm, and he acknowledged to himself; he was glad for Killian’s presence.

 

 

 

Fireflies had come to the party and hovered in and around the lattice ceiling of the courtyard. They blinked and twinkled, causing enchantment. Inside the castle, in a great ballroom, a chandelier that dripped with cut crystal and blazed with the light of many candles tried to mimic the fireflies’ magic. Everywhere, signs of the year’s progression abounded.

Leggy zinnias were in bundled heaps, companion to pumpkins and bouquets of colored leaves, to dried corn stalks and bowls piled high with multicolored, cherry-sized tomatoes.

In other places were swags of evergreen, mounds of white flowers. A banquet table glowed with crystal of ruby red and forest green.

Rumplestiltskin spotted Mirana and his breath arrested… he was genuinely startled. She wore _black_. The White Queen wore black, the fashion headlines would read, and it had a strange effect on Rumplestiltskin. Everyone, people and creatures looked somewhat askance. Had someone died? Well, yes; the year was dying. But this was irregular, all the same. In times of sorrow, the Queen placed a veil over her grief; she did not present herself in negative.

She wore a black gown that sparkled with jet and it made her pale skin and fair hair even more alarming. It darkened her dark eyes, making the shadows beneath all the more ghoulish. Her lips were painted the color of dark plums. Rumplestiltskin was rooted to the spot, under a Gorgon’s spell.

Through his shock he felt intrigue, arousal. It was no casual thing, the change of wardrobe. There was a message in it. Was it for him? Was it for the Dark One?

She saw him. His heart throbbed, a peculiar feeling that extended to his throat, to see her eyes light. Recognition and pleasure showed there. She lifted her skirt to hurry his way and Rumplestiltskin smiled at the familiar sight of her bare feet.

He endured a flash of wayward imagination, painful to his vascular system; Mirana in her lack gown, seated upon her Hedge-embellished throne. And he, penitent, perhaps naked, kneeling at her feet. He cradled one of her bare feet in his hands and kissed its top.

The slippery, little sylph or arousal that arrived when he saw her transformed into something large. It loomed. His body was only a cavity and chaos frolicked within.

“Rumplestiltskin.” Mirana said, coming level to he and Killian. Her voice was a hushed excitement, and – at once – Rumplestiltskin knew he had caused this transformation. He’d kissed her and had made darkness. He’d kissed darkness _into_ her. Was this pleasing? Was it unsettling?

“Mirana.” He said, and experienced another of Killian’s heavy sighs. “You look so different, love.”

She blushed pink, a feverish thing against the black. “You look lovely.” He added.

She smiled at the two men, then said, “I match the two of you, now.” With a small laugh, she added, “What will people say?”

_Oh, don’t give me ideas,_ Rumplestiltskin thought. He took her arm, and then Killian was back to trailing along. The baby duck; it was maddening. It was also touching, in an odd way.

Earlier, Rumplestiltskin had made an amorous approach, fingers going to the laces of Killian’s ridiculous, flouncy shirt. Gruff, Killian had shrugged him off. He’d said, “Go fiddle with your butterfly, mate. I’m not your fall-back fuck.”

It had taken nothing. _Nothing_. Rumplestiltskin had made puppy eyes, rather mimicking Killian’s tactics. His hand had cupped Killian’s jaw, and he’d said, “Come on, kitten.” That was all. The pirate had melted, his skin suddenly hot. “Oh, alright.” He’d said.

It was stunning, the way Killian seemed to belong to him. It was a little frightening.

Music played, strings and an eerie sort of drumming. It wasn’t exactly a waltz, but dancers moved in recognizable ways over the pale floor of marble. Fauns danced with buxom women, ogling. Leroy was easily mistaken for one of them, eyes lecherous beneath a bald pate, teeth shown in a wide grin.

Holding out his hand, Rumplestiltskin asked, “Will you dance with me, Mirana?”

There he went, Killian huffed. Fuck’s sake. Hand and hook loosely at his narrow hips, his stance was rather stiff. Well, I can’t bloody well ask _you_ , Rumplestiltskin thought. Immediately proving him wrong, Victor and Jefferson sailed by. Fucking hell. Mirana accepted his hand and he led her out into the fray.

It was dizzying. There were so few times he’d been so close to her, unless he’d shifted. A black butterfly on her arm, a crow, nestled to her hip. A black cat, warm in her lap, head cheekily pressed to her breasts. But when he shifted, part of himself was always lost in the form. How different it was to hold her close in his own form. He led her, the rushing steps of the dance making him feel a thrill as she followed. Her body pressed close to his. Like Killian’s, it put off heat. His hand, at the small of her back, simmered.

As the music concluded he spun her, their joined hands over her head, to a stop near Killian. The music revamped itself into a much faster, more jovial tune and Killian got a mischievous gleam in the deep blue of his eyes. Surprising Rumplestiltskin, he held out his hand to Mirana.

“Another go, love? Er.. Your highness?”

Mirana’s smile was brilliant, belying the sternness of her appearance. Rumplestiltskin was certain he caught the unabashed cheering of several small witches.

She said, “Mirana is fine.” She took Killian’s hand. The small act sent strange, nearly overpowering tremors through Rumplestiltskin.

“Here.” Killian said, getting them situated. He guided Mirana to stand on his feet, her pale, bare feet on his black boots. He placed his hook at her waist and their joined hands made the bow of a ship, leading the way.

He was the pirate Rumplestiltskin recognized of old, which was both pleasing and alarming. His smile was rakish, his eyes lit with amusement, one brow raised in a manner both insinuating and touched with irony. His color was high… perhaps he’d had a nip of rum.

Full of devilry, he asked, “Ready?”

“Yes!” Mirana’s excitement was infectious. At her response, Killian launched. His long legs made a wide sort of skip, twirling Mirana so that her skirt, her hair flew about with them. She laughed and flushed, holding tight to Killian in the round and round whirling, and Killian grinned at her merriment, her death-grip.

Rumplestiltskin felt… what was it? Happy? It took several moments to begin to recognize the feeling, as it was not associated with power, triumph or sheer pleasure in evil. It was sneaky, like magic laid down in the soft steps of a cat’s paws. It crept in through his eyes, his breath, and filled him up. Rather than weighing him down, it made him too light. If not tethered, he might begin to levitate.

When they finished with their dance, arriving back to where Rumplestiltskin stood and watched, Mirana hopped down from Killian’s boots with a gasp of laughter. With unexpected grace, Killian turned her about, her skirt a dark opening of flower petals, into Rumplestiltskin’s arms.

“There you go, mate.” He said.

Something in the gesture, the hand-off, sobered all three. Rumplestiltskin held Mirana close and Killian stood, perhaps a little too close, just behind her. Collectively, their breath caught.

 

 

 

“Why tomatoes?” Killian asked, popping a small specimen into his mouth. It was a deep yellow with hints of orange and green striping. When it burst open under his teeth, his mouth flooded with a taste both tart and sweet. There was a sting at his lips and a painful spurt of saliva at the back of his jaw. For a moment, his senses were overwhelmed with an awareness of green. Warmth. Fuzzy green leaves, nettles that pricked, a bitterish, milky-white sap in tender stems, bleeding where leaves were torn. These things were on his tongue and in his blood, and in no small way evoked a scent and feeling of sex. He swallowed, hiding the thrill that flared up within.

“We call them ‘love apples’.” Mirana said. “They’re starting to die off, now. It’s a tradition to have a last taste of the warm part of the year.”

She held one to Rumplestiltskin’s lips and he opened his mouth. Killian watched, aroused and jumpy as Rumplestiltskin’s tongue edged out and Mirana’s finger and thumb transgressed for a moment. Rumplestiltskin accepted the love apple with a light suckle, and Killian flushed in time with Mirana. He felt very odd… alert and yet filled with a drug-like heaviness. Plant-like feelers seemed to creep from the arches of his feet, slowly up his legs, soft and curious.

 

 

 


	26. Lazy Wolf

Killian felt lazy. It was unlike him, he tended towards restlessness. He might have a sprawled moment here and there, an hour of drinking with the lads under the subterfuge of ‘talk’. More recently, the props of drink or a calming drug made a portal to Rumplestiltskin’s bed.

For the larger part of the day, though, his body pushed him to move. It fussed at him to wake and rise in the early morning, still dark. The muscles of his arms and legs jumped, interrupting sleep and introducing the urgency of his bladder.

He was typically the only one to wake so early. Now that he was sharing Rumplestiltskin’s bed, he usually found the Imp already awake when his own eyes opened. Then, it was only the two of them, hushed and prowling around with lit lanterns, plundering Marmoreal’s kitchens and figuring out the workings of coffee. Killian felt as if they should have hobby horses and wooden swords, as if he played out a version of his young life with his brother.

They hunkered at the rustic, informal table in the kitchen and listened to the trill of a screech owl and a steady chirp that was insect or frog. They drank coffee, Rumplestiltskin’s with cream and his, black _. Black as the devil,_ he said, saucy smile in place as he clinked mugs with the Imp. May as well say _black as the Dark One. Cheers, mate._

Rumplestiltskin, in the wee hours, sometimes said he could feel the mermaid as she became restless. When he said it, Killian could feel her, too. It was not altogether welcome. Rumplestiltskin could also feel movement in the Hedge, but that wasn’t accessible to Kllian.

And then, as people began to mill about, to shuffle sleepily to life, Killian found he needed to be on the move. The day required some sort of purpose. Storybrooke drove him mad with its lack of a steady routine he could fall into. In Marmoreal, he tried to make himself useful. He was a sort to chop wood. To till soil for garden clearings. This sort of dogged physicality had been noted and looked down upon by Regina and her like, but he couldn’t help it.

It was rather pleasing to work, shirtless, and observe the gathering of both White Ladies and less pristine girls who fell under the title of ‘staff’. Like gaggles of ducks, they’d briefly crowd, murmur or giggle, then move on before they could actually be considered and audience. Gamely, Killian smiled for them, brandishing ax or hoe or whatever was at hand.

It was difficult to be still. His thoughts became muddled and complex with stillness.

Yet here he was, lazy. It was late afternoon and he felt drained. It was the dance… it nagged at him. He’d enjoyed it, actually… the whirling dance with the White Queen, the surprisingly intense moment, after, when it felt like something very erotic and unusual was about to happen. Something that Rumplestiltskin, no doubt, wanted, but Killian had not been able to imagine until that moment.

In fact, nothing had happened. Polite conversation resumed and the rest of Mirana’s dances were for Rumplestiltskin. The heady potential that shot into his bloodstream merely lingered there, mucking things up. Draining him.

Robbed of his usual vigor, he lay on his belly, on Rumplestiltskin’s bed. His arms embraced a pillow, crushing it beneath him. The sun, in its downward path, made long rectangles of glowing gold that stretched into the shadows of the room, blocks of light that burned over the stone floor and part of the bed.

There was a light tapping at the door and Killian’s eyes opened in a bleary way. Why would the Imp knock on his own door? Who else would come calling? “Bloody hell.” He murmured, trying to rouse himself.

“Who are you talking to?”

A muscle along Killian’s flank jumped and a path of goose-bumps raised along his lower back. He turned a bit to see Mirana, standing just inside the doorway. She was ghoulish in her Mirana way. She no longer wore black, and Killian was surprised to feel disappointment. It felt as if an offer had been rescinded.

“No one.” He grumbled, bringing his head to his pillow, once more.

Was it okay to do that? She was the Queen, after all. He was too lethargic to hop-to. Truth be told, he felt a little overrun with queens. They were everywhere, magical or otherwise, often enlisting his services to one nefarious purpose or another. Were there no bloody kings?

“You caught me napping.” He added, trying to take a more civil tone. “Rumple’s not here, just now.”

Surprising him, Mirana bustled her way into the bedroom. He watched through slitted eyes as she stood in the golden light, dust motes swirling all around. The light made an in-between color of her iridescent dress, her mercurial, white-blonde hair. She was neither shadow nor light. She could have been a ghost, standing in Rumplestiltskin’s room, looking at his things.

She touched the fingertips of one hand to objects Rumplestiltskin had collected in Marmoreal, things laid in a haphazard manner on a dresser and windowsill. A skull, maybe badger. A long snake-skin. Her other hand, as always, was troubled and feeling about in the air. What did she touch there, Killian wondered? She poked a bare toe, its nail glossy-black, at the heavy, leather belt he’d let fall beside the bed.

“It’s not like you to nap.” She observed, still moving about the room.

Killian’s head seemed to be buzzing. For all of the solid reality of Mirana’s bare feet padding on the floor; the steady rustle and swish of her skirt; she still seemed more spirit than flesh. He heard her voice through the buzz, as if far away. He watched her in the light. It was like watching a warm but much-faded memory.

“I guess I’m not myself.” He said.

Mirana looked at him with interest. Killian closed his eyes against the sudden, sharp clarity of her dark eyes, the unknown of them.

“Really?” she asked. “Who are you, then?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You pick.”

Once again surprised, Killian felt her sit beside him, perched on the edge of the bed. He opened his eyes to see her staring at her lap, hands weaving the air, a bemused smile on her face.

“Well, here you are. You’ve become an afternoon napper. You’ve either regressed to the very young or advanced to the elderly and _infirm_.” She arched a brow at him. Gods, her manner put him in mind of the Imp.

“Makes sense, love. Your highness. Mirana.”

“Let’s say elderly. Doddering. I think you’ve become a little, old lady who needs a bit of a lie-down after her constitutional.”

She was smiling for true. It made Killian smile. Until the dance, it wasn’t something she’d bestowed upon him, although certainly Rumplestiltskin had felt the warmth of it.

“That sounds right.” He obediently agreed with both his infirmity and his new gender.

“I should have one of my ladies find you a frilly bonnet, so you don’t muss your do.”

“I love a frilly bonnet.”

She… _giggled_. It wasn’t a full, girly giggle, of the sort Killian heard when clusters of girls gathered to observed him. It was a blurt, a hiccup that she swallowed, yet she still smiled. Well, then. If this weird woman wanted him to be a feeble, cross-dressing granny, he was game.

She said, “You probably live in a house with a lot of cats.”

“As we have such a cat shortage here.”

“Oh, but these are all your babies. You hand feed them pureed things and they all know their names.”

“… Pookie, Fluffy, Mittens, Agnes…”

Mirana made the bubbly noise again, pleased that Killian was playing her game. With a dawning sense of wonder, Killian thought… _this is how it’s done._ This was how one communicated with Mirana, on a personal level, without struggle or awkwardness. It was sort of pleasant. Did Rumplestiltskin play with her this way? Killian could see it; he’d found the Imp to be more playful than he’d ever imagined.

“And Mr. Whiskerton.” She supplied.

“He’s my favorite. He calls me Miss Lady.”

“Oh, Killian. _Ew_.”

“What?”

“You’ve got a big, pimple-thingie on your back.”

Well, bloody hell. Was the ease of the game over? Was he once more the crass, the unwashed, the boorish and now the _gross_ interloper, vying for Rumplestiltskin’s attention? A knave with a hook on his wrist and a pimple on his back.

Mirana edged closer, leaning over him. Her straying hands hovered, fidgety with purpose. “I’ve got to get it.”

“ _Get_ it?” This was new. “Are you harvesting the wild pimple?”

“No, just… “ She didn’t complete her thought. Killian was astounded to feel her hands on his bare back. There was a sharp, needle-like pain as she manipulated and squeezed near his left shoulder-blade, a point of pressure he hadn’t realized was there. There came an abrupt, unanticipated feeling of release, and Mirana said, “ _Ewwww_ …”

“Apologies for my… rupture.” Killian murmured.

Mirana picked up his discarded shirt and used it to dab at her ministrations. She gave off a sense of humming but wasn’t actually making any noise.

“Is the surgery over?” Killian asked.

“I’m not sure. Now that I’m here, I see you have some blackheads. I don’t believe I can let this stand.”

“No?” What was happening? Was a queen investigating the imperfections of his skin?

“Killian, you’re a mess.”

_Don’t I know it_. “I can’t exactly tell what’s going on back there, love.”

“This makes me concerned about the state of my back.”

“Want me to check it out?” It just tumbled from his lips, throaty with suggestion. It was more habitual than anything, and he cursed inwardly upon the utterance. Rumplestiltskin would have his balls.

He felt her bristle, mildly, and tried to curb his nature. Dirtiness, innuendo; it came so easily. Mirana’s primness, her seeming desire to remain a child was weirdly provocative to him. He wanted to shake her and smack her flighty hands as though she were an inattentive schoolgirl.

Wouldn’t Rumplestiltskin love _that_?

When she didn’t answer him, annoyed with his tone but absorbed in her task, he added, “I suppose you’d rather have Rumple tend to your back.”

She still did not deign to respond, but Killian could swear that something changed… something subtle, such as scent. It shifted. Her scent of pale flowers shifted so that it was less lemony-dewy and more honey-alyssum. Lily. He caught a light, almost-not-there musk, something he’d not associated in the least with the White Queen. It toyed with his senses so that he felt himself getting hard. It wouldn’t do. He refocused his thoughts on pimples and blackheads.

Mirana’s fingers visited a place at the base of his neck, then a ticklish place at the top of his rib cage. She pressed and squeezed, and with each release of his skin, she breathed, “ _Ewwww_ ….” She seemed to genuinely enjoy her revulsion.

“I would never have guessed you had such a peculiar compulsion.” Killian said.

“I _am_ finding it hard to stop.”

“You should probably see someone about that.”

“Yes. I’ll go to the mermaid. I’ll ask her how to overcome an obsessive-compulsive desire that surfaces with the onset of trapped sebum and skin irritation. Perhaps there’s a pill.”

“Or you could go to Rumplestiltskin.” Killian immediately felt uneasy. Why must he keep needling her about the Imp?

But Mirana rattled on, still in her play. “He would probably want deep analysis and behavior modification. For a price. I’m looking for cheap and easy.”

“Ah. Well, the mermaid it is.”

She blurped her giggle. Killian felt rather beside himself. The giggle made him want to sit up… sit up, fling her down and tickle her until she shrieked. He could see it in his mind’s eye, and he didn’t dare move for fear of indulging the impulse. He remembered times in his boyhood when he’d tickled girls until their breathless laughter turned to tears, his brother suddenly pissed. He was always told he took play too far. He didn’t know when to stop.

He felt her hand in a sweet, soothing caress over his back. It was utterly mysterious, her fixed attention. His skin soaked up her touch as it had the rays of the sun. he realized it was not a true caress, stroking with the flat of the hand. Rather, her sensitive fingertips roamed and felt, prodding and moving in little circles. She still hunted blackheads, using her fingers as a guide. She must have run out of them, for there were no more pauses to squeeze and become thrilled with disgust. Would she be disappointed, he wondered? It became only touching, the light or firm touch of her fingers near the nape of his neck, down his spine, over his shoulders.

The irksome situation of hardening cock was growing, becoming painful in his face-down position. Penitent of all the times he’d taken play too far, Killian held his breath. Hoping it wouldn’t disrupt the strange and unexpected communion, he shifted his hips and moved one knee, akimbo. It took a great deal of discipline to keep his hips still. His blood was stirred-up, hot.

It was the scent. And the touch. It felt like a tease of Mirana’s connection to Rumplestiltskin. What was it, exactly? Was she a virgin? He certainly was not, and he was painfully jolted to realize how intrigued and aroused he was to consider Mirana and Rumplestiltskin. It was a very different perception from the one that catapulted him into jealousy. In fact, it shamed him a bit.

Even so, he thought, _don’t stop_. He silently willed Mirana’s touch, keeping his body in a pleasurable, anxious suspense.

“What’s this?” spoke a curious, mildly sardonic voice.

Well, of course. How could Rumplestiltskin fail to show up at such a moment?Killian felt himself tense, feeling that even if Mirana failed to realize the sexuality of the moment, Rumplestiltskin would not. Surely his presence would signal the end of the interlude… Mirana would always look to her wizard, to whom she was connected by magic and by sheer, freaking weirdness. The two of them… sweet Buddha.

Her fingers still touched him. She said, “Killian’s back is a disaster ground of clogged pores and pus.”

“Indeed. How vile.” Rumplestiltskin said, amiably. He sat down on Killian’s other side.

Truly, what was happening? Killian opened his eyes and turned his head on his pillow. He looked at Rumplestiltskin. Rumplestiltskin looked back with a half-smile and a wrinkled nose. That long nose. It was like Killian had let off a fart of a charming piquance.

“New hobby?” he asked Mirana.

“So it would appear. Could you ignore this?”

With a soft snort, Rumplestiltskin said, “I think I could, aye.”

“You are _such_ a strange pair.” Killian sighed, his voice almost a moan.

Mirana said, “Are we?” Killian was a little surprised to hear the note of sarcasm in her voice.

“I believe you’re turning Killian into pudding, dearie. You realize you’re grooming a wolf. It’s the very thing they live for.”

Killian felt his wolf-hackles rise, just a bit. Rumplestiltskin was exactly correct.

“Really?” Mirana asked.

“Mm. You’re fortunate he hasn’t fallen to licking your face and wagging his tail.”

“Are you likely to do that, Killian? I don’t think I want my face licked. The tail-wagging might be funny.”

“Maybe.” Killian murmured, still processing disbelief. He’d thought nothing had happened, no conclusion to the moment of intensity that gripped all three at the dance. Maybe something _had_ happened, was still happening. “If I could move I might go a bit doggy.”

“See?” Rumplestiltskin concluded. “Pudding.”

Rumplestiltskin stretched out on his side. When Killian met the richness of his dark eyes, Rumplestilskin made a kissy-face. It was not without snark, but the pout of his bottom lip teased.

“You wanna make out with me?” Killian asked. He felt subversive, perverse, asking in front of Mirana.

“You wish, dearie.”

Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes, apparently in the spirit of the wolf-nap. Killian thought… well. That was a bit of disruption to an already disrupted psyche. Yes, he did wish. Weirdly, he wished for Mirana to see it, the way Rumplestiltskin kissed him, pet him. He wanted to see Rumplestiltskin with Mirana as well… he could not account for his out-of-control thoughts, the images they produced.

Mirana’s fingertips became a deep spell and Killian put focused effort into not grinding to the bed. He’d lavished upon himself images of the three of them, entangled. Plundering Mirana’s virginity, if virgin she was. Feeling the heat of their lips against his.

He swallowed a moan and somehow remained still through a rippling of hot blood that coursed through his loins. He was upset. This was all rather upsetting.

Rumplestiltskin drifted quietly into a light sleep. _How can you sleep_ , Killian wondered. He’d become wakeful in a specific way. His skin was terribly alert and he needed sex in a way that flared his nostrils and planted an aching howl in his chest. The wolf, the one that took play too far, was keening to rut, pacing and whining.

He wanted to move, yet he wanted to stay put. The mingling scents of Mirana and Rumplestiltskin crested over him, into him. Honey and hot pepper and the new wraith of musk… vanilla, clove, bourbon vetiver.

Seeing the rapid, back and forth movement behind Rumplestiltskin’s eyelids, an almost infantile, fragile shadow of lavender paying about his eyes, Killian closed his own eyes and tried to force calm into his body.

Mirana made a somewhat phlegmy sound, a resigned and maybe disgusted sigh. “And they all sleep.” She announced to the room. “Such stimulating company.”

Killian made a sound, back, a meaningless grumble. He wanted to tell her _he’d_ stimulate her, if that’s what she wanted. He’d find out what was happening under all that frothy meringue and stimulate the devil out of her. He wanted to fuck, to come so badly, it hurt… a low and steady throb.

And then… _shhhhhh_.

Was this the point at which he went mad? When later, people would ask him if he could recall the particular moment when he lost his mind; would this be it? He could rummage about in the rubble and come up with this: he was visited by a very small, green-skinned girl.

She was behind his closed eyes, so vivid that his eyes startled open. She was still there, perched on his pillow, sitting cross-legged. She was so close, he went a little cross-eyed, looking at her… she was inches away from Rumplestiltskin. If Mirana saw her, she made no mention.

The green of her skin was pale and dusty, her hair long and dark. She wore a variety of costumes, all at once. Footie pajamas with a wolfish hood, a black tutu around her middle, a witchy broom at her side. Touching a tiny and shocking fingertip to the tip of his nose, she said, _Sleep, now. Good dog_.

Overriding Killian’s burst of adrenaline at her presence, she fed into him the calm he was failing to achieve on his own. She somehow eased the torrid images that had taken hold.

What she fed him was strange. Sleep began to creep in. He saw Mirana in a sort of wasteland, a place that seemed absent of her Hedge. A moor. She held and pet an enormous black crow, and a white dove perched on her shoulder, nestled to her hair. Sliding up to her, a slow side-wind, was a glossy-black snake, a red ribbon wound about its neck.

_Rumplestiltskin_ , Killian thought, and then he went under.

 

 

 

 


	27. The Spell

The travelers were lined up, on stand-by. Jefferson, hat in hand, had scanned the fashionable parlors of Marmoreal and was dressed for the occasion; long coat, natty scarf, fingerless gloves, aviator goggles perched on his head; he was ready.

They waited, a strange, make-believe feeling taking over while the White Queen and the Dark One worked their spell. Victor felt as if he was playing Heroes and Villains, and he’d gotten stuck with a role like Cyclops. His role was to touch the side of his head and stare intently.

Leroy felt jittery and foolish, yet – of nearly all non-magic-workers present – he had the most faith in magic. He’d said goodbye, with true regret, to a number of women in Mirana’s court. In Marmoreal he was a stud. It pained him to think of his semi-monkish life in Storybrooke, but he couldn’t let his brothers down. He couldn’t let them live yet another false life, this time enslaved to Zelena. Could he? No, he couldn’t.

Could he?

Killian stared at the ground. Once Rumplestiltskin finished the spell with Mirana, he had no real concern about facing Zelena. He felt calm about it. It was what came after that gnawed at him.

The spell, as the magic workers explained it, would work through mushrooms. “Uh-huh.” Victor nodded. 

Killian felt much the same, but that was the way of magic, in his experience. Mirana could have said it would work through the element of song and dance, or through and inter-connected series of spider webs… it was all the same to him. Magic may as well transfer from one of those little phones to another.

The mystery of it, the dreamlike or nightmarish aspect of magic was that it could work. It could work in small ways, ways that even someone such as himself might access, given proper instruction. Then along came someone of power, someone like Rumplestiltskin or Mirana, and it could work in astonishingly large ways.

As he stared at the ground, he listed to the little witch who had appeared when he went mad. She’d stayed with him. Her name was Zoe.

Zoe was a lover of magic and of costume. At the working of the spell she followed Jefferson’s lead; she wore something like a mechanic’s coveralls, wand and other magical implements tucked into various pockets. Her dark hair was in a long, messy ponytail. Oddly, around her waist was a fanny pack, a camouflage design of pink and olive drab.

It was so hard not to speak to her, aloud. He’d become a mumbler, brow drawn down as he tried to concentrate on too many things. He’d confessed to Rumplestiltskin, “I think I’ve been caught by one of your little witches, mate.” Only to be met with an accusatory finger in his face, a triumphant, “Ah- _ha_! Wizard dementia, me arse!”

Well, how was he supposed to know? He’d gone his entire, long life without ever once being harassed by a tiny woman. Well, Tinkerbell…

He now understood that both Mirana and Rumplestiltskin were well aware of the little witch, (witches), but others were not. It was a shared psychosis between the three of them, like an STD they’d incubated together. If he spoke to Zoe, aloud, those not in the know looked upon him with concern.

But conversing in his head… Gods, it was slippery. His face wanted to make expressions. His hand wanted to gesture. Sometimes Zoe made him want to laugh aloud.

In addition to magic and costume, she also loved him. She told him so, perched on his shoulder and happily tapping at the teardrop dangle of his earring.

_You’re so pretty. You smell so nice. I love you, Killy-cat. I love you forever. You’re my big wolf_.

 She loved her wolf PJs.

How did one remain passive, staring at the ground? It was like a chipmunk professing undying love. It was so fucking cute.

Her cuteness, her smallness was misleading. She was also capable of a shocking degree of lust and voyeurism. Killian had become resigned to her presence, sometimes the presence of several witches, when Rumplestiltskin fucked him. There was no privacy, no boundaries. Oh… it was weird. They watched; there was commentary. Talk of score cards. In the aftermath, he had vivid visions of Zoe hugging his spent cock, bigger than she. She kissed the shaft. She nestled to his pubic hair, warm to his belly. It was sometimes intensely arousing, and therefore completely disturbing.

Rumplestiltskin said that because the witches were part of Mirana, she had awareness of those things they experienced. They catalogued and reported. _Disturbing_. Killian had wanted her to see Rumplestiltskin kissing him… he was less certain he wanted witnesses to being _penetrated_ , to becoming overwhelmed and tormented with vulnerability.

But, so it was. He did not have the access to Mirana that she had to him, which he found unfair and utterly typical. Although Zoe shared some of Mirana’s thoughts, the witches were loyal to their mistress. They protected her. And yet, via the little witches, they were all linked; they were a threesome.

At the spell-working, Zoe set aside the cresting nature of her erotic adventures in Killy-land. She was wholly focused on magic. She chattered on about it, a little bird in his ear.

_Mirana wakes the Walker, and he will oblige her magic by delivering it to the great ash tree that died, now a home to mushrooms. The tree, or the mushrooms, bid by the Walker, will transmit the magic through the networks of mushrooms. The Hedge connects everything… See, Killy?_ (He refrained from speaking something sarcastic, aloud. Victor was calling the spell The Wood Wide Web.) _The Hedge will connect the network, here, to the network in your land. Then, (she made a ghoulish, somewhat evil face, little hands gesturing outward), the network will spread out, beneath the ground, and send the spell all over. It will send out spores of reversal. It will destroy the witch’s magic. Then you’ll kick her wicked butt._

_Is that right, lass_?

He would likely never consume another mushroom. He’d had no clue they were busy communicating amongst one another, aware.

The time came and it was difficult not to snort a bit when Rumplestiltskin’s arms rose. Killian might have to mimic it, later, in private. Rumplestiltskin conducted, magic collecting all around, while Mirana poured an offering, a potion she’d brewed as part of the spell, onto the ground.

Feeding the Hegde, Zoe said. Waking the Walker.

Zoe told him that Mirana was bound to the Hedge, consort to the Walker. She was unable to leave Marmoreal. Rumplestiltskin had said something similar, and it was baffling to Killian. How could one be bound to a… spirit? How could Rumplestiltskin’s primary rival for Mirana’s affections be shrubbery? It made no bloody sense.

In tune with the magic workers, Zoe came to attention and raised her wand. Magic was afoot. Even the practical-minded felt it, fingerlings and feelers walking up spines and planting rather upsetting visions of spores in the mind’s eye. Skulls populated by mushrooms, fruiting bodies emerging from the eyes, nose and mouth…. Clustered into the spiral shells of ears.

Zoe whispered, _When you go, Killy-cat, I won’t be able to come with you. I must stay with Mirana and the Walker._

_I know, love._

_Will you come back_?

He wasn’t certain and didn’t answer. Unaware he did it, he gave a small shrug.

_Please come back, Killy_.

 

 

 

 

Magic became thick. Onlookers became fully uncomfortable with visions of mushroom take-over. The landscape of the inner eye, collectively, became filled with worlds that appeared barren, but were – in fact – overrun with fungus.

Individuality was all but forgotten… a hive mentality told each person present, you are a small part of the whole. Person became cell or artery, neural impulse. Person became a busy protein and carried a chemical or hormone along the vast landscape of breathing spores. Spores raised themselves, feeling, speaking, consuming all as they staged their mass colonization.

This was the landscape, Killian realized. This was the place he’d seen Mirana, seemingly alone with her black and white birds, then attended by the serpent who came to her. _Rumplestiltskin_. It had looked like a wasteland, but now he could see, could feel that it was very much alive. The land spoke in whispers and rushes. It hurried its message along, it made settlements and passed on magic, body to body, awareness to awareness.

Mirana’s part seemed complete. Through the visions swimming in his mind, Killian saw her kneel to the ground. Her head was bowed, her hands folded in her lap. She looked like a girl at prayer. He became shocked to see a dark figure, looming over her.

It was very unlike herself in appearance. The pale moth was overshadowed by a figure that was tall, fierce, dark. Antlers reached over her like the branches of a tree. They all but caged her. Killian could not comfortably settle the figure into man, beast or vegetation.

_The Walker_ , Zoe said, a shiver in her voice.

An enormously protective feeling rose up within Killian. He needed to go to Mirana, to pull her away from the Hedge. Maybe he needed to pull her away from Marmoreal. He had a blink of a vision; Mirana wearing jeans and a heavy coat, maybe his, heading into Granny’s while the sky outside turned dark and snowy.

_No, Killy. She belongs here. With him_.

That was difficult to accept. He saw that Rumplestiltskin, too, was distracted by the presence of The Walker. His arms still conducted, magic still filled the collective consciousness of fungus and traveled the pathway, opened by The Walker. But Rumplestiltskin looked to where Mirana knelt, overshadowed. His face darkened, his brow furrowed.

If the others could see it, Killian couldn’t tell. Most present seemed to stare, zombie-like, at the swirling and gathering of magic. It was fully Rumplestiltskin’s, now. Black and plum smoke moved and glittered, a howling within it. The scent honey and hard rain was on everything. Killian would smell it on his clothes for days.

The manifestation of magic came to an abrupt close. The smoke cleared and the light seemed stronger. Killian no longer saw The Walker. The howling remained, as did the scent.

Rumplestiltskin turned to Jefferson and said, “Now.”

This part had already been discussed. The order was the opposite of the flight to Marmoreal. Rumplestiltskin would go first, while Zelena’s spell was wounded, compromised; maybe broken. He would be the first to arrive and raise up magic against her.

Then Jefferson would come for Killian, who was ready to fight if need be. No one knew for certain if the spell would release Storybrooke’s people all at once, or little by little.

Then, Victor. Then, Leroy.

Goodbyes were already said; everyone knew time was of the essence. Still. Killian saw Mirana tilt her face up to Rumplestiltskin. He couldn’t see her expression, but he saw the stricken look on Rumplestiltskin’s face. It twisted his insides. Feelings that had been fueled by jealousy were much changed… he could not bear for either of them to hurt.

Rumplestiltskin touched his fingers to Mirana’s face, then turned quickly to make the jump with Jefferson. All was quiet, after that. It seemed the howling, the scent and the visions had all departed with Rumplestiltskin. Everyone stood, but for Mirana. The hush was settled and seemingly unbreakable.

Very quickly, the disturbance of air that was the Hat returned, and Mirana looked over her shoulder, meeting Killian’s eyes.

_You must come back_ , Zoe said. _We love you, forever_.

Killian nodded, his nod also answering things unspoken, seen in Mirana’s eyes.

Jefferson reappeared, stepping out of his self-made vortex. He held his arm out to Killian, who strode in fast, long steps to his side. They made the jump, and Killian felt his heart empty in the absence of his little witch.

 

 

 

 


	28. Storybrooke

“What the fuck?” Leroy asked, plaintive.

The travelers looked around. Much had changed.

“Is this… is this Storybrooke?” Killian asked.

An undercurrent of a growl in his voice, Rumplestiltskin said, “Aye. The witch changed things to her liking.”

She had, indeed, Killian thought.

Granny’s was some sort of exotic cuisine and martini bar. The library was the exclusive property of Zelena; a private library of the occult. Its façade glittered with a green-black stone, and paired statues of winged monkeys were at the base of its newly steep and wide stairs.

The streets were of yellow brick and put off a sickly glow. The Mayor’s mansion was a hovel of plywood, tar-paper and tin.

However, vision was becoming as strange as it had been in Marmoreal. A wind gusted through town, and – as it did – all sorts of paper fluttered about. Things were coming apart.

The monkey statues seemed not so much things of granite, stone; rather, they were papier mache. Strips of newspaper, crinkled and oddly scented with a floury glue unraveled from the statues and blew around until they were no more. The streets were littered.

Scrolling lettering in neon on the renovated window of Granny’s melted into puddles of color. The liquid slid down the windows, forming livid pools that seeped into brick and cement. Beneath the gloss and gloom of the new exterior, the cottage-like face of Granny’s could be seen, a spirit-building.

It was happening everywhere… The yellow brick showed a dark ghost of asphalt, beneath. The Mayor’s mansion, white and relentlessly Colonial was a looming phantom over the hovel.

Paper began to fly about in little cyclones, bits of confetti, and – soon enough – a trail of black smoke in the sky announced the arrival of one pissed off witch.

 

 

However, she was accompanied by a dragon. That was a surprise. Unlike the plane-dragon in Marmoreal, it flew toward the travelers with purpose.

“A _dragon_?” Victor said, clearly unhappy. He stood near Jefferson, both of them round-eyed.

“No, no, no!” Leroy demanded, appalled.

Looking at Rumplestiltskin, Killian said, “Fucking hell.” Rumplestiltskin shrugged.

“Indeed, dearie.” He agreed, yet he didn’t seem too broken up. With a rather vicious smile, he said, “Now we know she wasn’t working alone.”

It seemed of small comfort to Killian. “Aye. But what’s to be done about the beast?”

A wild and wicked crackle filled the air, along with a hot, reptilian stench. The dragon was sooty-black. As it flew, each mighty pump of its leathery wings put out its herpetarium  scent. Its belly, its chest glowed with the stirrings of an inner fire.

“Why, I thought we might attack the dragon with magic, dearie.” Rumplestiltskin said, addressing Killian as if he was pretty, but sadly simple.

Shrinking back, face all fury and sarcasm, Leroy yelled, “You’re so novel! What a good idea!”

With a cavalier roll of the eye, Rumplestiltskin revved up. He was a pitcher at the mound, working up to a sneaky speedball. He refrained from giving his crotch a sportsman-like tug.

As he revved, a ball of fire, concentrated magic, formed in his hand. He let it loose to fly, a heat-seeking missile, straight to the dragon.

“Maleficent.” He snarled, lip curling. “I’m surprised she would cast her lot with Zelena.” Offended, he added, “I gave her her unicorn! Well, it was part of a deal, but nevertheless!”

The Imp’s fireball skimmed against the dragon. It caused an uproar but did not dispatch it. The dragon veered with a shriek, wobbling in a wheeling motion as it assessed its damage.

“Good.” Leroy muttered. “I’m glad we could piss it off.”

Zelena landed before them; starkly, insanely green. The dragon continued to circle overhead, nursing itself.

“Missed me.” Zelena smiled. “Now you gotta kiss me.”

 

 

 

Rumplestiltskin’s look of illness at the suggestion did little to charm Zelena. Jefferson looked from one to the other. His terrible secret was that he was a bit wild about Zelena. He didn’t especially like her as a person, but he liked watching her… she was one hundred percent devoted to overacting, just like his telenovelas.

Her eyes were wide and full of the sort of offense that toyed with one’s mortality. Her upper lip pulled back from her teeth; her head drew back, a cobra, about to strike. On top of which she wore opera length gloves and a short, detective’s cape. Her hat was caught between witch and pilgrim and sat at a jaunty angle atop her elaborate up-do. She was absolutely fabulous.

“Don’t fancy a kiss, Imp?” she asked, her voice one of over-done stage production. “Then how about a little curse?”

Jefferson grinned. He made himself stop. He frowned, serious, as befit the moment. Victor had never taken his eyes off the circling dragon.

Then it happened. People came crawling out of the woodwork. There was shuffling confusion and all present took a moment to consider Night of the Living Dead. The citizens of Storybrooke rubbed their eyes as if waking from a long, winter’s nap. Here and there was a person still under Zelena’s thumb, ready to rush to her aid. Killian and the others found themselves obliged to attend. They tried to simply round folks up. Then they threw punches. Not wanting to hit Archie, Killian menaced with his hook and bared teeth until the tweedy psychiatrist came back to himself.

Regina appeared, in full command of herself. She looked down at the motley she wore, thrift store cast-offs, brands from Wal-Mart and other discount venues. She scowled. The rogue scar on her upper lip looked dangerous. She shouted Zelena’s name, and it made Zelena place a delicate, gloved hand over her mouth, a mocking _oh-no_! Her mad eyes sparkled.

Rumplestiltskin was done with this trifling witch. When she’d first ensnared him, doing her utmost to hurt and humiliate him, he’d wanted a violent revenge. His thoughts were brutal, visceral and bloody. Now he just wanted her gone. Dead, alive… it really didn’t matter. Her entire agenda was that of an angry little girl. That was her plot. She’d wanted to out-do him, simply to prove that she could. Then she wanted everyone to capitulate to her. To bring her presents and chocolate.

It was so… hack.

While Zelena made her _uh-oh_ face at Regina, getting off on Regina’s ire at her new style, Rumplestiltskin reached out a quick, snake-like arm. His hand, simmering with his own magic as well as Mirana’s mushroom-magic plunged into Zelena’s chest.

It was very satisfying, the more so for Zelena’s complete inability to conceal any emotion or passing thought. Her breath sucked in with pain and she stared down at her chest, the arm sticking out of it, with undisguised horror. The Imp came to surface. With his free hand, Rumplestltskin shook a tsking finger at Zelena and sing-songed, “Villains, take note! Don’t take time to gloat!” He smiled. “It turns out, I wouldn’t care for a kiss _or_ a curse, dearie. In fact, I think I’ve had my fill of you, altogether.”

He ripped out her heart, happily watching her crumple to the ground, her face a mask of pain and tragedy. He tossed the organ, almost charcoal-black, in his hand. Should he crush it? Should he toss it to Maleficent? In dragon form, she couldn’t resist such a tasty, sooty morsel.

He looked at Regina, coming level to him. He scanned amused eyes over her mom-jeans, Tweety-Bird sweatshirt and clunky sneakers. Her hair was held back in a… scrunchie?

“Shut up.” She said.

Smiling still, Rumplestiltskin held the heart before her. “I’ve got a present for you, Regina. If you want it.”

Regina’s eyes lit, and Zelena wailed, “Nooooo! Not _her_! Don’t give it to her!”

Oh, good. He’d made the right choice. Why go for the kill when one could prolong pain and agony? Pain that endured, that humiliated. Death often seemed too quick and kind to Rumplestiltskin. His smile broadened. He handed the heart to Regina, taking dark and evil pleasure in Zelena’a sobs. Her tears.

Adding insult to dire injury, he produced a little vial from thin air. Leaning down, he collected a few of Zelena’s tears, clucking as she winced and struggled.

“These will come in handy.” He told her. At her ear, he murmured, “Don’t fuck with me again, missy. I won’t be kind.”

“This isn’t kind!” Zelena jerked her head to where Regina stood, making an investigation of the heart. Her dark eyes glittered and shone. The heart spoke to the evil queen within.

“Oh, this is nothing, dearie. Simply a convenient and entertaining solution. Don’t try me.”

Standing upright, he sighed. What was to be done about the dragon?

 

 

 

 

Killian released an exasperated breath, shoulders slumping as he muttered to himself. His knuckles were bloody, and he was trying very hard to keep his hook out of the rumble. If these bloody people would just come to their senses, already.

Storybrooke looked more like itself. Almost everyone was back to normal, albeit dazed, rather stoned. But there were a few hangers-on.

Ruby, for one. She was caught between girl and wolf. It seemed to Killian that Victor might be having too good a time wrestling with his former crush, even if she was a hairier version. He held her in a sort of Heimlich maneuver and she flailed. She _growled_. Killian would have happily traded marauders.

He’d exchanged blows with people he didn’t know and with _dwarfs_ , for crying out loud; all of them making a beeline for Rumplestiltskin. Now he was stuck with David Nolan.

Mary Margaret Blanchard sat on the sidewalk, hunched over, head in her hands. She stared at her surroundings and looked deeply regretful. She looked down at the plunging neckline of her out-of-character dress in discomfort. She watched Killian try to subdue David without actually beating him, yet while trying not to be pulverized by the bigger man.

Weakly, she called, “Oh, honey. No.”

If he wouldn’t come to his senses, perhaps he could do Killian the courtesy of passing out, crying ‘uncle’… _something_. No matter how many blows Killian landed, Nolan just shook his head like a befuddled dog, and kept coming. He defended Zelena’s right to be Queen of Everything and he enforced Rumplestiltskin’s rightful place; in wizard jail. He supported a winged monkey statue in every garden, gnomes be damned.

“I don’t want to hurt you, mate.” Not entirely true, but one tried to do the right thing. Well, on occasion.

“But I want to hurt you, Hook. I always knew you were a cowardly little shit, running off with the Dark One, hanging your hopes on evil. I guess pirates go where the living’s good, right?”

In his head, Killian heard Rumplestiltskin say, _oh… hurt him_. Bloody hell. Even under a curse of evil, the prince was righteous. Even playing on Zelena’s team, he believed in his cause.

Killian had long since relieved Nolan of his gun. With a touch of dismay he saw the prince, always the Boy Scout, produce a knife from the pocket of his jeans. Nolan went into a fighter’s crouch and fell into an intimidating routine of tossing and twirling his blade back and forth, hand to hand, a complicated show of deadly dexterity.

“Oh, fuck’s sake.” Killian said, tired.

Nolan grinned. He was downright creepy when he was evil. Killian, however, was over it. He mimicked Nolan’s crouch and danced his dance, smiling with bloody teeth to raise the prince’s ire. As Nolan was in mid, ambidextrous play, Killian hauled off and landed a fast, unforeseen and full-throttle punch, just upside Nolan’s jaw. He spun himself around in the process, barely keeping balance. Instantly, he held his hand to his belly, gasping, “ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.”

It hurt like a mother-fucker. Killian’s already busted-up knuckles sent out a wild protest, wondering why the pirate would hit something so hard and seemingly unbreakable as Nolan’s bones. Were it himself, Killian’s jaw would have to be wired shut to heal. Nolan’s head snapped back. His jaw seemed intact and, for a moment, his face seemed genuinely affronted to have his fine knife-play interrupted. _Rude_! Said his expression.

He staggered, then blessedly dropped to the ground, knocked out cold. Killian stood over him for a moment, his abused hand tucked protectively to his body. “And _stay_ down, mate.” He snarled. As an afterthought, he gave the prince a little kick. He saluted Mary Margaret with his hook and stalked away.

 

 

 

I bet your castle has turned back into a farmhouse.” Regina said, in a sweet and thoughtful way. She pet the disembodied heart.

Zelena bawled, “ _Nooooooo….”_

Rumplestiltskin walked away, keeping his eye on the dragon. All this caterwauling. He was glad to be leaving Zelena for Regina to deal with… he was not overly familiar with her brand of female. The hyper-reactiveness, the tantrums and the sense that she was an unfillable hole… if the matter remained in his own hands, he would return to his original plan of disembowelment. He’d nursed fantasies of holding slippery entrails before Zelena’s shocked eyes. While smiling, maybe dancing. A moment of Impish delight before she bled out. Ding-dong.

Interrupting his tangent of nastiness and horror, a strange and small voice said, “Wumplesss.”

He stopped in his tracks, looking around. Overhead, Maleficent was getting a little closer, more sure of herself. She circled, barely favoring a wing. In his immediate surroundings he saw no one. His brow furrowed.

“Hello?” he queried.

“Wumplesss… kin.”

At once, he knew. The force he’d felt, spirit-like and yet strong, pulsing with life… _faerie_. Those who dwelt in Storybrooke’s underground, long before Storybrooke was cursed into existence. The land was one of deep ravines, high ridges, endless evergreens and tall maples that blazed with color before the leaves dropped, leaving bare branches to mourn in snowy skies.

Faerie were a part of it. Part of the plundered caves, the deadly rush of rivers, the long and deep sprawl of the forest. The inter-dimensional, underground network of mushrooms would fall within fae province. Mirana’s Hedge magic would be readily felt by such entities… perhaps greedily received.

Voice soft, he said, “Show yourself.”

It wasn’t a command, but a request.  He did not utilize the magic that filled his body and surrounded, all about, excited to his touch.

He was where his troubles began, near the Sheriff’s station. Tatters of paper scattered and scuttled, and from a leaf and debris congested gutter came a small being. It was not quite what he expected, given the glittery, push-up bra, ballerina façade of the Fairies.

The creature was wee, as Mirana’s witches. It put him in mind of a baby bat, or perhaps a baby sloth. It was furred. Its dark eyes were enormous liquid pools, occupying much of its face.

It stood upright, both animal and humanoid in appearance, and regarded Rumplestiltskin from a cover of leaf. Its small body wore bits of lichen-armor.

Rumplestiltskin said, “Hello.”

He remained very still. The creature before him was small, but the feeling of it was very big. Behind the refuse at the gutter’s drain, he thought he saw the glimmering of many dark eyes… they were packed in there. They colonized the underground as the mushrooms colonized their chosen tree; they spilled from the gutter.

“Hello, Wumplesss.” Said the emissary.

Unable to resist, Rumplestiltskin crouched down, his skin, his back attuned to dragon flight. His bad leg pained him, his hand braced heavily to one knee. Though he used magic with ease, he’d never come to take it for granted. He was freshly awed by a new aspect of magic, a race not previously known.

If Wonderland was a repository for cast-off children of humans and angels, what had this land sheltered? Who were these folk?

“Has the mushroom spell pulled you out hiding?” he asked.

The creature nodded, studying Rumplestiltskin as closely as it was studied. “Magic fills ground.” It said, a small and raspy voice. “Strange magic, new. Speaks to we.”

Curious, Rumplestiltskin asked, “What does it say?”

Narrowing its eyes, the Fae said, “Land is yours. Take it back. Take from witch.”

As on his drunken night with Killian, Rumplestiltskin wondered; which witch? Zelena, surely. But it was Regina who cast the initial curse. It was Maleficent from whom she stole it. It was he who created it.

All were present.

Wondering what would happen, he said, “Aye. It’s yours.” Perhaps Hedge magic extracted a price, as did the Dark One’s magic.

The little fae cast its big eyes over Rumplrstiltskin’s shoulder to the dragon, Maleficent. Rumplestiltskin twisted to look as well. In dragon form, Maleficent was truly magnificent… a wild specter of darkness, glowing from the inside. The dragon was so different from the woman, who dripped sarcasm like a path of bread crumbs and showed a prim and controlled exterior. Rumplestiltskin wondered which version was the truth.

Abruptly, the little creature was on his shoulder. It was a shock, the more so for the feeling of invasion. The creature was in a squat, fingers and toes holding onto Rumplestiltskin. It hummed. The hum got inside Rumplestiltskin… like spores of fungus, it invaded. It filled his bones, colonizing marrow. It vibrated in his chest and found shelter in his head.

He stood, and he and the wee fae faced the dragon.

 

 

 

 

Killian hung back, arms slack at his sides. His body appeared calm and still, but his eyes were wild. The blue of his irises were storms, a child of the deep, blue sea… he rode its surface, much troubled by the unseen world, beneath.

He didn’t know what it was he watched. Rumplestiltskin’s back was to him, the new Rumple of shirtsleeves and a casual air. Something… had a little witch gotten past the Hedge?... was with him. The small thing came out of its crouch and stood, raising up its little arms.

Rumplestiltskin’s arms raised as well, conducting again. Or he worshiped. Or declared victory.

It had been a long day of magic, and in more than one world. It was like being too long in the element of water, the only relief to be found in sky. Killian craved something solid.

It wasn’t yet to be found. As Killian watched Rumplestiltskin and the mysterious being, both in rapture, he also saw a phantom figure that encompassed both. Large, dark… a spider? Something tentacled?

It was frightful. It had him frozen in his tracks, feet growing roots. The figure overshadowed. It’s many appendages wove the air and sent out webbing. Spider, then. Killian’s skin crawled. Shadowy strands rode the air and made a net, and the net sought the dragon.

The actions of the phantom spider were directed by Rumplestiltskin and his companion. Killian saw more of the small things… mice, tiny monkeys, furry people… they came tumbling from the gutter. They clustered about Rumplestiltskin, thick at his feet. More little arms raised. Rumplestiltskin was part of a dream congregation that welcomed the end of days. A dragon ushered it in. A jezebel had been defeated, the curse of her heart trapped in the hands of another.

Everywhere, thick and pungent, was the scent of magic. Killian felt Jefferson and Victor come to stand beside him. It was a ghost world, Storybrooke. That it was made-up was clear; the truth of it was less clear. Killian was wrapped up in scents of storm, calla lily, jasmine. The full-on fungus scent of rotting leaves, a cemetery scent that brought Mirana sharply to mind rose up, and he watched more nets fill the sky.

The dragon struggled, wings caught in the nearly invisible webbing. Her wings were hampered, her tail folding beneath her body. Her head bent to her chest and seriously hindered thoughts of breathing fire. She fought, yet was slowly reeled in, brought down to earth. By the time she was grounded, she was a woman.

Killian watched, and knew he would follow Rumplestiltskin. His chest ached with it. Whatever he did, wherever he went. Killian’s sense of home had never really developed, but now it felt clear. Home was Rumplestiltskin, and the feeling of magic. He missed Zoe. He missed Mirana.

 

 

 

 

 


	29. Epilogue

Jefferson and Victor traveled back to Marmoreal. They’d been back and forth a number of times; Jefferson to check in on Rumplestiltskin, Victor to reunite with Mirana and to bring her toys; a snow globe with a figure of Edward Scissorhands inside, a small, wind-up owl that walked like a robot and clacked its beak. A tiny, plastic figure of Wonder Woman.

They’d returned with the purpose of witnessing the knighting of Killian Jones. Both found this idea hilarious. He’d accepted Mirana’s proposal to be her Black Knight, the guardian of Marmoreal, its defender.

In Marmoreal, when such an honor was to befall an outsider, the outsider had to earn it by tournament with one of Marmoreal’s own.

And, so the day had arrived. An open stadium was set up on a sprawling green. It was summer in Marmoreal and the stands were filled with people and animals in wispy, colorful summer attire. Sundresses and linen suits, broad-brimmed hats and a profusion of flowers. Ribbons flew in the air and flower petals rained down from an unseen source.

Mirana sat with a dark-clad Rumplestiltskin and with her ladies, and Victor and Jefferson cheered when she bestowed her favor upon Killian, tying one of her pale ribbons about his hook-wrist. Killian grinned at her, utterly boyish, then turned his grin upon the crowd with his hook-arm raised. His handsome devilry drove the crowd wild.

His competition was one of the contenders for the long-unfilled position of White Knight. Gamely, Victor and Jefferson booed the poor fellow. He seemed a bit of a prat. He and Killian circled one another, white and black chess pieces, and a bewigged MC appeared on the field. He dressed like 1970s Elton John and his hair looked like a vanilla ice cream cone.

The MC had a megaphone which he ceremoniously held to his lips. Surprising the travelers, a rhythm began in the stands. It was like being in a ritualistic church and not knowing the lines. Victor and Jefferson looked at the surrounding crowd, then at one another.

A steady, three-note foot-stomp and hand-clap had begun, people and animals alike. The stands shook. STOMP-STOMP- _CLAP_! STOMP-STOMP _-CLAP_! It was a loud roar, and Victor’s eyes grew wide and round. He looked at Jefferson.

“It can’t be.” He whispered. “Can it? No.”

The MC, circling the contestants as they menaced one another, began to chant into the megaphone.

“ _Buudy, you’re a boy, make a big noise, playing in the street, gonna be a big man some day_.”

Victor was almost crying, bouncing in his seat. He clutched at Jefferson’s arm and at his own chest, and Jefferson looked at him, concerned for his mental well being.

“Dear God. It _is_! It _is_!” Victor cried.

The crowd, stomp-clapping the rhythm to the MC’s chant, responded as one, unified voice.

“WE WILL, WE WILL _ROCK YOU_! (stomp-stomp) _ROCK YOU_!”

Hand over his eyes, Jefferson’s arm around his shoulders, Victor wept for joy.

 

 

 

Mirana sat on Rumplestiltskin’s lap and he kissed her. Killian sat on a foot stool, very close, and openly stared. The room was hushed, the shadows drew near.

The kiss was long, but very soft. It was a nuzzling of lips, Rumplestiltskin feeding upon Mirana and Mirana feeding back. They shared breath, Rumplestiltskin’s hand at her jaw. Mirana made small sounds, and the sounds made rushes, like furtive, darting schools of fish in Killian’s bloodstream… little flashes briefly seen in sun then lost to shadow.

_Kiss her, Killy_ , Zoe said. She was back in wolf PJs. _Kiss her. She’s ready!_

Killian agreed. A warm, cuddly thing on Rumplestiltskin’s lap, Mirana did seem as though she might be ready for the likes of him. He was past ready for her. She was a part of him, now. Leaning forward, he reached his hand to her face. Fingertips under her chin, he gave a gentle pull, turning her away from Rumplestiltskin.

He felt the purr, the quiet growl that came from Rumplestiltskin’s chest as he made his claim. He brought his mouth to Mirana’s, and they both inhaled sharply, lips meeting.

Killian’s eyes closed. It was so different from kissing Rumplestiltskin. He became very aware of being in the lead, of Mirana’s inexperience… it was another little rush.

After only a moment, Mirana leaned back, breaking the kiss. Her breath was fast and shallow. Her head nuzzled against Rumplestiltskin’s hand, buried in her hair.

“What is it, love?” Killian asked.

Shaking her head, Mirana said, “Nothing. I just…” She shook her head again, wordless.

Zoe’s little heart pounded at Killian’s ear, feeling the things her mistress felt. Killian was almost vibrating, so filled with anticipation had he become. His body felt like the plucked string of a violin. What might happen? He looked at Rumplestiltskin. What would this new life be like the three of them?

Rumplestiltskin smiled at him, cradling Mirana. With a sigh, he said, “You should simmer down, pirate. This is a long game. Did I ever tell you that Mirana’s specialty is kissing girls?”

Killian’s eyes grew wide, one eyebrow raising with a fair amount of interest. Mirana was horrified. She gasped, her blood stirring to color her from face to chest. Her hands flew to her cheeks, then one broke ranks. She smacked Rumplestiltskin on the arm, hard.

“ _Rumple_!”

Laughing, Rumplestiltskin said, “ _Ow_ , dearie.”

With a pronounced flounce, trying in vain to hide her embarrassment, Mirana struggled to rise from his lap and then stomped her bare feet out to the balcony, to cooler air.

“Bloody wizard.” She muttered.

Killian stared after her, and Zoe announced, _Miss Priss_. He took her place on Rumplestiltskin’s lap. It was a familiar place to land.

Grinning at Rumplestiltskin with a nod to the balcony, he said, “She’s much more sensitive, now that she’s a lesbian.”

 

 

 

 

Mirana never married, for she wan’t the type. Also, unbeknownst to Marmoreal, she was long wed to a world of spirits.

But her Wizard and her Black Knight were ever at her side. They kept Marmoreal safe and sound.

Her rule was long and just. Her kingdom was happy.

Her lovers out-lived her.

When her body died, her spirit was welcomed by the Walker of the Hedge. From his shelter, she and her small witches poured all their love upon Rumplestiltskin and Killian Jones.

They loved the Wizard and the Pirate-Knight. They loved them forever.

 


End file.
